


Fallen Heroes - Part III

by Alexbright99



Series: Fallen Heroes [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Original Character(s), Plot, Science Fiction, Some Humor, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexbright99/pseuds/Alexbright99
Summary: Trapped behind enemy lines, the USS Achilles’ covert mission to reclaim the Federation’s home worlds is taking its toll on her crew led by the haunted Captain Rinckes. Aided by Tony Blue, a former member of the Q Continuum, they are locked in a deadly cat-and-mouse game with the enemy. With tensions rising, the odds stacked against them, how much more will they have to sacrifice to end this war?





	1. Prologue

**Colony New Hoorn – August 5, 2356 – Stardate 33593.4**

Hidden deep within the Beta Quadrant, on the fringe of Federation space, Colony New Hoorn is nothing but a speck of dust on the interstellar map. Finding passage to this backwater colony is challenging, but being a Starfleet officer gives you certain advantages when it comes to arranging transport, no matter your destination. The SS _Macon_ , a cargo ship that can only be described as ancient, has somehow made it to New Hoorn.

Apart from two crewmembers and a cargo hold full of construction material, the _Macon_ carries only one passenger: a twenty-two-year-old ensign wearing a one-piece black-and-gold uniform signifying he’s either an engineer or a security officer—his stern aspect, slicked-back hair, and muscular physique suggest the latter. Ensign Stephan Rinckes’ aquiline face is reflected in one of the cargo ship’s rare portholes as he studies the lush M-Class planet New Hoorn. It has less than 400 inhabitants, and their impact on the planet’s stunning appearance is negligible; the colonists’ settlement itself can’t even be seen from orbit. The sole reason for its low population density is its remote location. By all means, it seems like an even better place to spend one’s well-deserved R&R than Risa.

Ensign Rinckes isn’t here for vacation or to enjoy the unspoiled nature of the paradisiacal New Hoorn. His reasons for visiting this faraway planet are far more serious.

Lost in thought, Rinckes is late to discover he is not alone. “We’re ready to beam you down,” the _Macon_ ’s captain, whose name has eluded the young ensign, declares gruffly before hobbling off. They won’t be sending each other greeting cards after this trip; they hardly spoke a word throughout the entire three-week journey. Also, the term captain can be loosely applied to this man. Yes, he’s in charge of the ship, but if you said he was a stowaway who’d recently woken up from an alcohol-assisted slumber behind a crate, nobody would suspect you to be lying.

Annoyed by the captain’s lackluster pace, Rinckes follows him to the _Macon_ ’s main cargo area. Once they’ve entered a random cargo bay, the captain summons him to position himself between a dozen crates that are stacked on a circular transporter pad.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Captain “Stowaway” says. “Make sure you’re at the rendezvous point at noon. We won’t wait for you.”

Rinckes mumbles an acknowledgment. Half a minute later, he and the crates around him dissolve in a transporter beam.

* * *

Experienced from its surface, New Hoorn’s majesty is even more tantalizing. Ensign Rinckes evades the surprised looks he garners when emerging from the stack of crates and starts toward the heart of the colony, ignoring the breathtaking scenery. While impressive, the planet’s exotic wildlife, tropical climate, and rich emerald flora do not interest him.

The colony resembles a 19th-century Western town made of modern yet sterile materials instead of wood. Its long central street consists of a moss-green brick road, which seamlessly blends in with the environment. The colonists, who were happily going about their daily lives, stop and stare at the Starfleet officer hurrying toward the colony’s town square.

Once Rinckes has reached the colony’s center, marked by a golden fountain sitting in a patch of grass, commemorating the first starship to arrive here, he makes a beeline for one of the abutting houses. Even though the house Rinckes has set his sights on is identical to all others—simple, yet built to withstand any type of weather—he zeroes in on it with steadfast determination. It’s his journey’s end, the reason he has been travelling for weeks.

He chimes the doorbell. People are gawking at him, which doesn’t keep him from ringing the doorbell again, and again. Before long, he starts knocking on the door—softly at first, but soon enough he’s banging on the door with his fists. His patience threadbare, he peeks in through the front window. The house’s modestly furnished living room appears dusty and deserted. “Anybody in there?” he shouts while tapping the window. “Mom? Dad?” They’re not in. This is what he had feared. If they’re not home… there’s only one other place they could be.

Rinckes approaches a bystander, a young woman, who lowers her gaze and tries to walk off. Unwilling to let her off the hook that easily, he grabs her by the arm and says, “I need you to tell me where the hospital is.”

* * *

As it turns out, New Hoorn’s hospital is located on the outer edge of the colony and offers a spectacular vista of the valley below. Because of its similar construction, one could easily mistake it for another house if it weren’t for its transparent sliding doors featuring Starfleet Medical’s emblem.

Ensign Rinckes rushes in and storms toward the reception desk. The receptionist, a corpulent nurse in her fifties wearing civilian clothing, is startled by the unannounced arrival of a Starfleet security officer and tosses aside a PADD she was reading. Before she can ask anything, Rinckes cuts to the chase. “Alan and Holly Rinckes. Where are they? What’s happened to them?”

She is too perplexed to do anything but stammer unintelligibly.

Rinckes slams his hands onto the desk and leans in on the stuttering nurse. “I have to know if they’re okay. Where can I find them?”

“I’m not… I can’t let you…”

“Please! I’m their son, Stephan.”

Mortified, the nurse shakes her head, all the while shooting nervous glances to her right.

Rinckes looks at where she’s looking. “Will that corridor lead me to them?” The nurse refuses to answer, but he knows he caught her out. “Thanks.” He pushes himself away from the desk and sprints into the corridor.

* * *

Ensign Rinckes kicks open the first door he encounters and enters a small office. Except for a desk, a cabinet, and an ugly painting, it is empty, so he turns back and kicks in the adjacent door, only to find another vacant office. One by one, Rinckes forcefully opens every door in sight while advancing through the corridor, uncovering small offices and storage spaces—all unoccupied.

Having explored the area, revealing nothing to suggest his parents’ presence, he slaps a nearby wall in frustration and stops to get his bearings. Over his heavy panting, he hears muffled sounds of running and shouting coming from a far corner of the building and closing in on his position. Whoever they are, they’re after him.

He swivels around and spots a pair of sliding doors, tucked away at the end of the corridor and mostly obscured from view because their drab color is identical to the surrounding wall. The ensign dashes toward the mysterious entrance. It doesn’t open for him, so he rubs his fingertips against its cold alloy to search for a way in. Without knowing or caring how he did it, the doors open, unveiling a spacious elevator. Not exactly what he expected, but there’s no time to think; rapid footfalls of his pursuers prompt him to jump into the elevator and press a balled fist on the only button there. The doors close and the elevator starts its slow descent.

Save for the gentle hum of a moving elevator, it is remarkably quiet now, and Rinckes cannot hear his chasers anymore. Unable to hold still with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins, he paces back and forth like a caged tiger. Drawing in deep breaths, he suddenly becomes aware of the pervasive chemical odor of antiseptic cleaning products. Before he can ask himself why that is, the elevator comes to a stop and opens its doors, allowing its lighting to shine into a dim chamber. Rinckes shivers, though he’s unsure if that’s because of this place’s low temperature or its ominous aspect—possibly both.

He takes a hesitant step into the chamber, triggering the lights to activate and cast desaturated light into a room barely larger than the offices he rummaged through. There’s a metal table in the back, a freestanding console on the right, and eight metal drawers embedded in the left wall. The elevator doors close behind him as he inches toward the drawers. Six of them have red indicators, presumably to signal their emptiness; two of them are marked by green indicators instead.

It’s as though someone has punched him in the stomach. He has clearly entered the hospital’s morgue, and there are two corpses stored here. “No, please don’t let this be true,” he whispers, and he hurries over to the console. The young ensign is so upset that he hardly notices the morgue’s elevator leaving the floor to bring him his pursuers. Due to his unfamiliarity with the console’s exact functions, it takes him a few seconds to figure out what to do; surfacing tears aren’t helping either. He bites his lower lip and forces himself to stay focused.

After accessing the correct subsystem and typing in the proper commands, the two green-lit drawers slide open, their macabre contents hidden by water vapor hissing out. As the steam dissipates and cold mingles with the smell of death, the cadavers’ outlines sharpen. Rinckes hastens toward the metal slabs and realizes with a shudder that the two corpses are each covered by a greasy Federation flag.

Only two Starfleet officers are stationed at this civilian-operated colony: Alan and Holly Rinckes. As if to protect him from the emotional blow, his mind immediately conjures up alternative explanations. For instance, it might be a local custom to replicate Federation banners for each deceased individual, as a nod to the very organization that enabled this colony’s existence. Perhaps they simply had two Federation flags lying around and saw it fitting to use them here. For the briefest of moments, he almost believes the implausible, if only to nurture false hope just a little longer.

He has to know. With bated breath, he peels away the Federation flag covering the left corpse and reveals a middle-aged man’s scorched face. Burned skin may render identification troublesome, but for Ensign Rinckes there is no doubt about it: these are the remains of Commander Alan Rinckes.

Though this confirms what he had feared ever since his parents dropped off the radar, the consequences of this discovery don’t register with him yet. Dizzy and nauseous, the ensign turns to the other corpse. There’s no escaping the truth; these must be the remains of his mother. He has to make certain, so he reaches to lift the flag… and cannot bring himself to go through with it. As a security officer, he has witnessed tragedy and violent ends to innocent life; he should be used to this, be able to keep functioning under the harshest of circumstances, but he feels as helpless as a frightened child.

Rinckes stands frozen between his parents’ charred remains until his legs buckle and he collapses onto the tile floor. Struggling to find the right words to bid his parents farewell, he cannot say anything coherent. Despite his best intentions and his desire to be strong, he lets the tears flow and cries bitterly.

That’s when the elevator doors open and two men come rushing into the morgue. In reflex, Rinckes springs to his feet and assumes a defensive stance: chin tucked, knees bent, fists raised. The two men stop dead in their tracks, but the confrontation is far from over.

“We’re too late. What do we do about him?” one of the men—a thirty-something, short but thickset nurse—says while cracking his knuckles.

The other man is dark-skinned, an imposing six-and-half-feet tall, presumably in his late fifties, and wearing doctor’s robes. In a commanding voice containing hints of a Central-African accent, he says, “You are not supposed to be here, Ensign.”

Rinckes quickly wipes his tears and sizes up his opponents. The nurse could easily double as a nightclub bouncer, and the doctor is muscular enough to barely fit into his robes. They have him cornered, but Rinckes is not giving up without a fight. In spite of the more primal parts of his brain running the show, he manages to ask, “What have you done to my parents?” Without waiting for an answer, he lunges for the doctor.

The nurse tries to intervene, but Rinckes uses the nurse’s weight and momentum against him by grabbing his arm and giving his shins a swift kick, causing the nurse to lose his footing and crash headfirst into one of the closed metal drawers.

Before Rinckes can follow up, the rounded tip of a hypospray injects something into his neck. Within seconds, everything goes blurry and fades to black as his limp body sags to the floor.

* * *

Paralyzed from the neck down. When Ensign Rinckes regains consciousness, all he can do is open his eyes. Straining to lift his numb extremities yields no results other than accelerating the heartbeat thrashing in his ears. With great effort, Rinckes turns his head to the right and sees he’s trapped in a room taking up the hospital’s entire top floor, which is bathing in daylight because of its plentiful windows.

Gradually, his vision rids itself of its haziness, and he counts over a dozen biobeds, all empty except two: the one he is in and another one occupied by a motionless senior. Before Rinckes can begin to comprehend the situation or panic about his quadriplegic state, someone speaks up from his left. “He’s awake.”

“Thank you, Michael,” a familiar voice with a slight African accent says.

Rinckes carefully tilts his head toward Michael and recognizes him as the nurse he fought in the morgue. Now, he is pressing an ice pack against his swollen nose while glaring at his attacker. Rinckes rotates his head to the right, braves the ensuing discomfort, and notices the doctor has pulled up a chair to watch his captive. In a fruitless bid to get up and escape, the ensign reattempts to control his arms and legs, but he can’t even wag a finger.

“I had to sedate you,” the doctor says.

Rinckes’ vocal cords are cracked leather. “I can’t move.”

“A side-effect of hastily administered sedation. It will wear off on its own.” He grabs a medkit and digs through its contents. “I can speed up the process, but we’ll need your full cooperation.” He glances past Rinckes, and then smirks at him. “And we don’t want you to attack us again, please.”

When Rinckes offers no response, the doctor clears his throat and says, “My name is Doctor Jim Onyiego. I knew your parents well, considered them friends. They have lived here for three years and they mean a lot to our community. They are…” He sighs ruefully. “They were good people.”

Though Rinckes is relieved the doctor and his assistant appear to be benevolent, this is the first time someone verbally acknowledges his parents’ death. Wanting to hear the doctor out motivates him to practice emotional restraint, yet he cannot prevent his eyes from going moist.

Apparently, Dr. Onyiego picks up on this, because he rests a hand on Rinckes’ shoulder and says with disarming sincerity, “I am deeply sorry for your loss. I have to ask, though. How did you know your parents were in trouble?”

While this might be a subtle interrogation attempt, this information is by no means classified, so Rinckes explains as eloquently as his sedation permits, “They used to send me a video message every first Wednesday of the month. Nothing spectacular, really, just their method of staying in touch. I always replied with a message of my own. Without fail, this went on for years—until last month. I immediately knew something was wrong.” He meets the doctor’s gaze. “They didn’t respond to any of my subspace messages. I tried reaching them for days.”

“So you used your Starfleet connections to travel all the way over here.”

Rinckes nods. “Please tell me what happened.”

Instead of granting the ensign’s request, Dr. Onyiego grabs a hypospray from his medkit and presses it against Rinckes’ neck.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. It’s a mild stimulant. It will get you back on your feet in a few minutes at most.”

Rinckes sighs in relief.

The doctor puts the hypospray away, folds his hands, and leans forward. “The technical details elude me, but the colony’s geothermal power plant had destabilized, which, if left unchecked, would’ve destroyed the colony in a catastrophic earthquake.”

Rinckes can guess where this is going. Alan and Holly Rinckes worked at the geothermal plant. It was their project, their dream to adjust existing geothermal technology to subdue New Hoorn’s volatile tectonic conditions. Where many had failed, they had succeeded, together, in making an entire planet suitable for colonization.

“When the automatic evacuation order was given, Alan and Holly remained at their post while all other personnel fled to the evac shuttles. Your parents refused to abandon us and managed to stabilize the plant—an impressive feat, given the buildup of heat and radiation.” Dr. Onyiego’s voice breaks and he needs a moment to compose himself. “I was called to the scene. I had to wait for the intense heat and contaminated air to vent from the control room. When the computer allowed me to enter…” The doctor shakes his head. “There was nothing I could do. They had already expired.” On the verge of tears, the doctor gives Rinckes a plaintive look. “I’m sorry, Ensign. I’m deeply sorry.”

Despite the urge to cry and kick and scream, and much to his own surprise, Rinckes stays calm and says, “It’s okay, Doctor. You did all you could.” A handful of seconds pass, steeped in mournful silence, as the horrible situation sinks in and leads him to ask, “Why wasn’t I allowed to know?”

Dr. Onyiego lets out a deep breath. “We were going to tell you, but you beat us to it.” He leans in on Rinckes again and says in a confidential tone, “Nobody outside the colony was supposed to know about the incident yet.”

Rinckes lifts an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“This is a remote colony, funded and operated by civilians. Horrible as it may sound, we cannot afford bad publicity tarnishing our reputation.”

This hits a nerve, and Rinckes gathers enough strength to sit up carefully. “Wait a minute. That’s the reason?”

“Yes. We were uncertain how to solve this conundrum. Of course we were going to inform you as soon as possible. We just… panicked. I’m really sorry you had to find out like this.”

Rinckes wants nothing more than to scold the doctor, and justifiably so, but he decides to hold off—for now.

“Think of it this way,” Dr. Onyiego says, and he rises from his chair. “Yes, we’re going to have to cover up what happened here.” He starts walking back and forth, making deliberate gestures to get his point across. “And that is unfair, I agree. But if this gets out, there’s a good chance this colony is finished—done for. It will be stripped of its assets and everyone will be forced to leave.” He stops pacing and faces Rinckes. “I don’t have to tell you how much New Hoorn meant to your parents. We don’t want their life’s work to have been in vain.”

Before Rinckes has a chance to speak his mind, the doctor grins and says, “Come here.” He helps the unsteady ensign to his feet and guides him to a set of windows providing an idyllic view of leafy trees and strips of houses under a clear blue sky. “We’re already screening exceptionally gifted engineers to continue Alan and Holly’s dream. The colony shall live on, and we’re counting on substantial growth. One day, thousands of people will enjoy living on this beautiful planet—all thanks to your parents’ sacrifice.”

At a loss for words, Rinckes stares ahead.

Dr. Onyiego smiles and puts his arm around Rinckes’ shoulder. “Your parents have saved three hundred and seventy-eight lives, including mine! They were heroes, Ensign. Don’t ever forget that.”

The doctor’s rousing speech notwithstanding, Rinckes’ conflicting emotions cause his stomach to ache. Part of him is undeniably proud of his parents; they died protecting what they believed in, and there is a certain nobility to that. But one simple fact remains: he just wants his mom and dad back. There will be no more monthly video messages, no more well-intentioned but ill-advised dating suggestions, no more friendly debates on which equipment to use on fishing trips, no more proverbial safe haven to return to when life’s struggles threaten to overpower him. The people in the streets—among them a group of farmers having an animated discussion, a family of five strolling down the road, and a young girl playing by the fountain—all owe their lives to Alan and Holly Rinckes. They were heroes.

* * *

**USS _Saratoga_ – December 18, 2356 – Stardate 33961.9**

It has been a strenuous day. Ensign Stephan Rinckes is returning to his quarters aboard the _Saratoga_ , traversing corridors of the _Miranda_ -class vessel that are as good as empty, which is fine because Rinckes isn’t in a talkative mood. Pulling double shifts to fill in for a sick crewmate has tired him. At least his superiors are happy with his accomplishments. If he can maintain his excellent track record, he’ll be a lieutenant by the end of next year. Rinckes has always been a striver, fully devoted to his responsibilities, but ever since his parents died he has acquired a singular focus on his tasks as a Starfleet officer. It helps dispel a gradually subsiding pain, and his revitalized work ethic is doing wonders for his career. Yet, he often catches himself reliving his tragic visit to New Hoorn.

After finding out about his parents’ fate and talking with Dr. Onyiego, he had wandered around in a daze, taking in the marvels of the planet while trying to avoid the colonists, who looked away whenever he would accidentally lock eyes with them. He didn’t want anything to do with them, to be honest. They were alive because his parents weren’t, and that was that. Rinckes hadn’t even gone through the trouble of searching for a place to spend the night; he had simply fallen asleep in a meadow on the outskirts of town. Upon waking, he had ambled over to the rendezvous point in a stunned state to remain there until the _Macon_ was due for departure. He had silently observed the colonists preparing new stacks of crates for off-world transport. As agreed, the _Macon_ had beamed him up at noon. Its crew hadn’t asked him about his one-day visit and he hadn’t bothered telling them. In fact, he didn’t tell anyone about what happened and simply got back to his duties, which he performed so well that he was awarded the position of junior security officer aboard the _Saratoga_ —his first starship assignment. Life went on, and as the days progressed, he began to feel more and more at home on this old but sturdy ship.

Ensign Rinckes has arrived at his quarters. Since he is a low-ranking officer and the _Saratoga_ is modestly sized compared to modern vessels, his quarters are cramped, containing only a bunk bed, a chair, and a wall-mounted terminal. Still, he is fortunate to have quarters of his own; most of his colleagues have to share. He seats himself and accesses his terminal to skim through a batch of security reports, groaning softly when he sees tomorrow’s duty roster has paired him with Ensign Wixor. The Bolian has a knack for talking non-stop and the stamina to do so for hours on end. Well, at least Wixor is kindhearted, and Rinckes has learned to tolerate his presence.

Once he has finished studying the reports, he selects the news feed out of habit and scrolls down a list of headlines. Something in the bottom right corner draws his attention, a news item that will be overlooked by many: New Hoorn Colony Annihilated By Raiders. He spends five seconds blinking at the screen. Then he extends a trembling finger to select the item and begins reading.

“Five days ago, an overwhelming pirate force raided Colony New Hoorn. Within a few hours, they laid waste to every building, stole everything of value, and killed all colonists. Not even the hospital was spared in this brutal assault. There were 435 people living in New Hoorn. No survivors have been reported. An investigation is underway to track and identify the pirates culpable for this massacre, but this will prove difficult, considering the lack of Federation presence and interest in this isolated area. With the colony’s inhabitants dead and its resources taken, it is unlikely New Hoorn will be recolonized in the near future.”

He closes the news item and turns his back to the terminal. Though he fixes his glassy stare on his bunk bed, the room keeps spinning while dozens of thoughts race through his head. As he sits there in his cramped quarters, motionlessly, for what seems like hours, and the initial shock yields to contemplation, he comes to realize there is but one possible conclusion: his parents gave their lives to save hundreds, but all they did was delay the inevitable. To make matters worse, since the colony’s population had grown in the intervening months, their noble sacrifice indirectly caused more deaths. And now there is nothing left of New Hoorn, nothing left of their legacy. A few hours was all it took to erase it from the universe, to be forgotten indefinitely.

Rinckes waits for the tears to come, but they don’t. There’s no point in crying. Tomorrow he will report for duty and put up with Ensign Wixor’s happy banter, and the universe will go on like it always has—cold and indifferent.


	2. Chapter I

**Behind enemy lines, USS _Achilles_ – July 9, 2386 – Stardate 63517.8**

The holographic representation of a S’Prenn ship looms over the forward bridge consoles. Black as space itself, its irregular shape is hard to discern, save for a few arachnid properties. Smaller than the average Federation or Altonoid vessel, it floats in forlorn emptiness like a spider drowned in a pool. It looks grisly and uninviting, yet it may turn out to be the most important object the _Achilles_ has ever encountered.

Lieutenant Tony Blue, manning his tactical station, watches Captain Stephan Rinckes study the alien ship from his captain’s chair. Seeing a S’Prenn vessel up close is a rare occasion indeed, even for a Starfleet captain. Tony’s successor, First Officer Commander Erin Crow, shifts uneasily in her seat to the captain’s right. That has nothing to do with her being nervous about her new commission and everything to do with her suspecting this derelict to be a trap. To the captain’s left, Doctor Chris Kingsley also fidgets in his seat, for completely different reasons: the doctor cannot wait to perform an autopsy on an actual S’Prenn.

“The S’Prenn ship’s forward momentum is 300 kph,” Chief Helmsman Lieutenant Baxter reports. “We’ve matched speed and heading.”

“Keep her steady,” Captain Rinckes says. “Lieutenant Kels, report.”

The Andorian Lieutenant Kels shakes her head, wiggling the blue antennae towering over her snow-white hair. “It’s hard to obtain useful readings from the scanners, Captain. There’s too much interference emanating from the vessel. We need to boost power to sensors.”

The Vulcan Lieutenant Surtak stationed next to Lieutenant Baxter raises an eyebrow and demonstrates his penchant for stating the obvious. “We would have to disengage our cloaking device in order to do that, sir.”

While carrying a cloaking device is in direct violation of the treaty of Algeron, Tony realizes the _Achilles_ wouldn’t have survived this long in hostile territory without it. Since the Altonoids are using this technology as well, thereby gaining an otherwise unfair advantage, Starfleet’s brass agreed to put the cloaking device the Klingons supplied to good use. Regulations exist for a reason, but sometimes rules have to be broken—an act of desperation rather than defiance.

A calculating stare from the captain ends his musings. “Lieutenant Blue, tactical analysis.”

Tony has had less than a day to get used to his new tactical post, but experience kicked in soon enough and he already feels in control. “There’s nobody around. We should be all right.” He inadvertently triggers a silent intruder alert on deck 6 and quickly corrects his mistake. “Weapons and shields are standing by in case anything goes wrong.” From the other side of the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Terrell and Lieutenant Gibbs are grinning at him. He guesses his accidental intruder alert didn’t go entirely unnoticed. Luckily, they’re kind enough to refrain from making a fuss.

“Drop cloak,” Captain Rinckes says. As a result, the bridge lights come on, revealing an amalgam of old and recent battle damage. Scorch marks stain the bulkheads and carpet, panels are missing, and some consoles have had to be scrapped and rerouted, but everything is generally speaking in working order. Functionality trumps cosmetics in this covert mission past its four-year mark.

“Boosting power to sensors,” Chief Engineer Lt. Cmdr. Terrell says.

Everyone waits for Lt. Kels to process her science terminal’s incoming data. Cmdr. Crow deems it necessary to ask, “Is it a setup?” which causes Dr. Kingsley to roll his eyes.

“I’m still having trouble reading the vessel’s interior,” Lt. Kels says. “There is a breathable atmosphere. No detectable life signs. And that’s all I can tell. The ship could be damaged beyond repair or simply powered down.”

“Suspicious,” Cmdr. Crow says.

“I agree,” Tony adds, which gains him the new XO’s undivided attention. “I must point out that an activated S’Prenn ship could easily destroy us.”

Captain Rinckes keeps focused on the viewscreen while no doubt weighing the available options. “Your concerns are warranted. However, we cannot let this opportunity go by.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, Captain,” Dr. Kingsley says. “And if you are to send an away team, I recommend they wear environmental suits.”

It’s as if the doctor has read the captain’s mind. “Commander Crow, assemble an away team.”

Her delayed response denotes her reluctance. “Understood, sir.”

Tony can’t squelch a smile.

“Lieutenant Blue, you’re with me,” Crow says in a thinly veiled diabolical tone.

Tony wishes his smile-squelching abilities were better.

She rises from her chair. “You too, Commander Terrell.”

The dark-skinned chief engineer stands up immediately and says with a broad grin, “A mysterious ship filled to the brim with giant sentient spiders who may or may not be alive, and the chance of it being a deadly trap? Blimey, count me in.” Joking aside, analyzing technology this advanced is an enticing prospect for any chief engineer, and he knows it.

Tony and Terrell follow Crow into the nearest turbolift. “Deck 4, transporter room,” she says to the turbolift’s interface.

A modest cough from Terrell. “Um. Belay that. Deck 5, armory.”

The two men await Crow’s reaction, but she pretends nothing has happened. She’s as willing to be armed to the teeth on this mission as they are.

* * *

The few times the mysterious S’Prenn intervened in Federation-Altonoid conflicts, they had always been on the Federation’s side. After the war erupted, the S’Prenn assisted in three separate battles and then, oddly enough, went silent. As the war raged on, they were nowhere to be found. One can imagine the surprise when they showed up all over the Alpha Quadrant a year later, integrated into Altonoid assault fleets. Since then, everyone has been wondering why the normally benign S’Prenn teamed up with a military force of aggressive xenophobes.

Less than a month ago, the crew of the _Achilles_ located a crash-landed Altonoid starship and uploaded its database. Confronted by two investigating Altonoid warships, Captain Rinckes had to abandon Tony Blue’s wife Emily and field medic Ensign Ted Barton on the planet, effecting the young officers’ demise. The intel recovered, however, proved vital. It was discovered that the S’Prenn have been aiding the Altonoids since as far back as the brutal attack on Earth, and they are being coerced to do so by means of brainwashing. With that, the Altonoids not only neutralized the Federation’s most important ally, they enlisted them, enslaved them, despite the S’Prenn’s superior intellect and sophisticated engineering. The Altonoids are not to be underestimated.

* * *

Aboard the S’Prenn derelict, four Starfleet officers materialize in a cramped chamber. In a place this unwelcoming, they’re glad to be wearing their robust EV suits, which leaves only their faces visible.

Commander Erin Crow’s miserable expression betrays she is resisting the urge to ask the transporter chief to beam her back and let the others sort it out. Per the new XO’s request, security officer Ensign Josh Donahue has joined the away team, carrying three cylindrical pattern enhancers. Lieutenant Tony Blue examines his phaser rifle to make sure it is in perfect condition, even though he has checked it twice already before beaming over. Lastly, Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell almost strangles himself with his weapons’ shoulder straps as he checks his three phaser rifles—each a different type—and his handphaser, adjusts his shoulder-mounted isomagnetic disintegrator, and inspects the imposing ceremonial Klingon knife he snatched from the armory’s decorative display.

The air seems putrid and thick, and Tony is grateful for his suit’s oxygen supply. The ship’s interior remains badly lit when Crow and Donahue switch on their wrist-mounted SIMs beacons and Terrell and Tony activate their phaser rifles’ flashlights. Evidently, these matte bulkheads absorb light. Acting on instinct, the away team huddles together as the three men await the first officer’s orders.

With her mixed ancestry, the jet-black-haired Erin Crow is beautiful even when wearing an EV suit—her petite figure makes her deceptively adorable—yet she appears to be on a continuous mission to counter her good looks with an assortment of scowls and frowns. The expression she’s sporting at the moment scores a solid four out of five scowling stars, as she waits for Terrell to stop fiddling with his weapon collection and concentrate on the tricorder he has detached from his suit.

Anxious as he may be, Terrell summons a friendly—if not broken—smile as he scans the surrounding area and says, “The computer room is located several decks away, I think.” He waves his tricorder around with steady precision. “From what I can gather about this area’s infrastructure, I might have an idea of where we should go.”

“Could you be more specific than that?” Crow asks.

“Not yet, though I’m starting to believe the computer room is the source of the interference.” Terrell scans the chamber wall to wall, testing the commander’s patience. “Yes, now I’m sure. If we follow the source, we’ll end up in the computer core room.”

“Is it safe?” Donahue asks, blinking more rapidly than his suit’s multi-colored status indicators. “The interference, I mean.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Terrell says.

This halfhearted reassurance does not placate Donahue’s nerves. “So we find the room, place the pattern enhancers, study their computer, and get out?”

“There’s a problem,” Terrell says in a manner that makes everyone check for spiders crawling up their legs. “S’Prenn hallways are tiny.” He shines the three phaser rifles’ flashlights on a corridor entrance, which measures two by two feet at most. “There’s no way we can crawl through there with our EV suits on.”

* * *

Lieutenant Tony Blue and Ensign Josh Donahue have ditched their EV suits. In their identical, gray excursion uniforms with a gold department color stripe running across yoke and sleeves, they could pass as brothers, seeing as they both are in their mid-twenties and have pale complexion, dark blond hair, and deep brown irises. Donahue is slightly taller and fitter and—as opposed to Tony’s default weary gaze—has an air of youthful optimism about him.

Although fully clothed, Tony feels naked compared to his superiors. Terrell, no doubt relieved he wasn’t selected to enter the crypt of multi-legged terrors, offers Donahue a phaser rifle. The ensign politely declines, deeming the handphaser he has secured to his belt more useful in cramped quarters. Tony, however, holds on to his phaser rifle for dear life.

“ _I’ve linked our in-suit communicators with your standard-issue ones_ ,” Terrell says. “ _We won’t be able to hear each other once you’ve advanced too far into the interference._ ” This makes Tony feel even more exposed. “ _Just make sure you follow the waypoint on your tricorders. It should lead you to the computer room. Place the pattern enhancers there and you will be able to contact us and the ship._ ”

“ _I need not stress the importance of this mission_ ,” Crow says from within the safety of her EV suit. “ _We may never get another chance. The S’Prenn have been an enigma for far too long. We must learn their side of the story. Gentlemen, this could turn the war around in our favor._ ”

“Or it could be a trap,” Tony says. Crow’s ensuing frown reminds him that she’s pretty when she’s angry, in a terrifying kind of way.

“ _I know, Lieutenant._ ” She enjoys calling him by his lowered rank. “ _Trust me, I know._ ” She takes a stride forward, armored and imposing in her EV suit despite her smaller stature. “ _For the record, I did not choose you for this mission because you were laughing at me on the bridge. I chose you because of your prior dealings with the S’Prenn and your away mission experience in general. I know you can handle this._ ”

Tony doesn’t believe her. However, he has no choice but to respect his place in the hierarchy. “I am ready, Commander. So is Donahue, right?”

Donahue gives a confident nod while adjusting the shoulder belt keeping the pattern enhancers strapped to his back.

Having run out of excuses to dawdle, Tony and Donahue say their goodbyes and set off. Tony crouches down first and crawls into the tight corridor while clutching a tricorder and shining his phaser rifle’s flashlight into the foreboding darkness. Donahue reactivates his wrist-mounted SIMs beacon and follows. Scary as this may be, Tony is duly motivated and confident in his and the ensign’s abilities. That is, until he hears Crow say to Terrell, unaware of her involuntary eavesdroppers, “ _If they don’t report back in twenty minutes, we’ll send in a new team._ ”

* * *

Commanders Crow and Terrell’s comm chatter reduces to static and disappears altogether as Lieutenant Tony Blue and Ensign Josh Donahue make their way single file through alien corridors barely wide enough for one person. Tony adheres to his tricorder’s navigational instructions, which consist of a single three-dimensional arrow pointed into what Terrell assumed to be the right direction. Behind him, Donahue is monitoring his own tricorder to double-check every path Tony might take. A makeshift compass is far from an ideal means of navigating this maze; it’s only one or two steps up from wielding a dowser.

Without their EV suits, nothing shields them from the sights and smells they encounter. The air is heavy and strangely acidic, and the enveloping heat is causing Tony’s attire to stick to his skin and his hair to sag into a mess on his sweaty scalp. Their flashlights cast insufficient light into the corridors, which unfortunately have the same matte finish as the bulkheads in the first room.

After the duo has rounded several corners and negotiated a small network of intersections, the navigation arrow finally points straight ahead. Tony halts to inspect the corridor they’ve entered, using his rifle’s flashlight despite its limited effectiveness. Just as he intends to signal the coast is clear, he does a double take, thinking he has caught a glimpse of an ill-boding shape lying on the deck plating a few dozen feet ahead. A product of his imagination? Tony flicks on his rifle’s night vision and squints into its scope. It’s hard to make out from this distance, but it’s there: a lifeless S’Prenn.

The S’Prenn are highly intelligent arachnids comprising two body segments the size of clenched fists, two lengthy palps flanking a set of disproportionally big white fangs, and eight straight, scaly legs, which make the average S’Prenn over a foot wide. They perceive the world with two—not eight as you might expect—raisin-like, obsidian eyes. Because of their remarkable intellect belying their relatively small brain size, it has been surmised their brains use a biological equivalent of quantum computing. Whether there is any truth to this hypothesis is yet to be confirmed.

Tony sways his rifle about. Its light beam dances around the S’Prenn’s features, casting grotesque shadows on the nearby bulkheads.

“What’s the delay?” Donahue asks.

“We’ve run into a dead S’Prenn.”

“Oh, good,” Donahue says with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Tony chortles at his colleague’s remark, a welcome diversion from the gloomy setting they’re in. “If we scan it, we may find out how it died.”

“Lead the way…”

Tony readies his tricorder to scan the creature. The hairs in the back of his neck stand up as he approaches the S’Prenn. The way it’s lying there motionlessly, it’s clearly dead, but what if it—

The floor disappears. Apparently, because S’Prenn are adept climbers, some of the major corridor junctures go up and down as well as left and right. With no time to react, Tony plummets headfirst into a vertical corridor shaft. Screaming and flailing, he slides down, occasionally grasping an intersecting hallway, only to have to let go moments later. With an ominous splash, his tricorder and phaser rifle land at the bottom of the pit.

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot break his fall. Sounding high-pitched and powerless, he manages to utter, “Help me!” At least the rapidly closing-in floor looks soft—a little too soft, actually. His tricorder and rifle are floating in some sort of biological muck. As he slides closer, he discerns assorted S’Prenn body parts sticking out of the slush, among them several contorted spider legs.

In one last-ditch attempt, Tony grabs two opposite entrances, pain be damned, bringing himself to an abrupt halt. His aching arms nearly succumb to this sudden weight shift. Grunting with effort, and wishing he had spent more hours at the gym of late, he slowly pushes himself up. Still upside down, Tony glances at the sludge of nightmares three feet below him. If his arms give way—and they will eventually—he will drown in a pool of liquid S’Prenn and share Emily’s fate of dying in the line of duty. His muscles and tendons burn as his tiring arms lose strength. Did one of those S’Prenn legs move just now?

Something seizes his feet! Tony shrieks in terror and almost loses his grip. Whatever is holding him, it is trying to pull him up, reducing the strength needed to keep from nose-diving into the horrors beneath. “Hang on, Lieutenant,” the nearby Donahue says, clutching Tony’s ankles. With his feet planted firmly on two opposite corridor entrances two levels higher, the ensign supports their combined body weight. It looks as awkward as it does acrobatic, but this unplanned circus act is a godsend for the lieutenant.

With Donahue taking the burden off his arms, Tony is able to clasp the left corridor entrance. “I got it from here, Ensign.” As soon as Donahue lets go of him, Tony pushes off against the side and slips into the corridor—a horizontal one at last. Gasping for air, he crawls forward three meters at most before collapsing. The floor is lined with the same creepy sludge, but Tony couldn’t care less. He is exhausted, bruised and battered; his arms hurt like hell and he is sick to his stomach, but at least he’s not neck-deep in spider soup.

After angrily spitting out the metallic taste in his mouth, he notices a purple glow at the far end of this confining hallway, indicating it might open up into a room. Without waiting for his colleague, he army-crawls toward it.

* * *

This used to be a lounge of sorts, equipped with miniature food stations now displaying rotting, unknown substances. Purple wall panels illuminate the room, which is two decks high—though that isn’t saying much on a S’Prenn ship; a humanoid cannot stand here. Encircled by balconies, this lounge must’ve been able to cater to hundreds of S’Prenn at once. Not anymore; the S’Prenn in this tomb have been liquefied to varying degrees, shrouding each surface, mingling with food, hanging from the balconies. Strangely enough for an enclosed space containing so much decay, there’s only that typical acidic odor—and silence, complete silence.

Tony sits cross-legged in a corner of the lounge, his shoulders drooped and his head hung low, when Ensign Josh Donahue enters the room. Picking up on Tony’s dour mood, he adopts a respectful tone. “Lieutenant, I retrieved your gear.”

Tony doesn’t reply, preoccupied with staring at a clot of fused S’Prenn.

Donahue sets down the grimy rifle and tricorder and maintains a reverent silence as he unbuckles his shoulder strap, gingerly places the pattern enhancers on the floor, and sits down cross-legged opposite the dejected lieutenant. They should proceed with the mission, yet Donahue chooses to join this unanticipated wake and be patient.

Quiet seconds pass by until Tony speaks up. “There is no afterlife.”

Donahue doesn’t have a reply ready for that.

“Even in our enlightened civilization,” Tony continues, “mortals have a tendency to believe in ways to cheat death, to… not lose.” He wants to meet Donahue’s gaze, but the ensign averts his eyes. “The thought of disappearing… They crave some kind of reason, a reunion with people they cannot bear to live without.”

Donahue watches the melted S’Prenn surrounding them, frozen in their death throes—some unnaturally flat, others with coiled-up legs reaching for the ceiling.

“And who can blame them?” Tony asks, his voice shrill. “Who can be blamed for desiring something better… than this? Yet there is no afterlife.”

His discouraging statement lingers for a moment.

Donahue finally returns Tony’s stare and says, “I am not saying there is more to life and death.” He musters a comforting half-smile. “But how can one be absolutely sure?”

Tony’s attempt to mimic his colleague’s smile devolves into a morose parody. “When I was a Q, I received the gift of knowing things no mortal was ever supposed to find out: answers, depressing answer, the removal of uncertainty so often misinterpreted as hope.” He grits his teeth. “When you breathe your last, you breathe your last. The universe is done with you.”

The ensign lets out a doleful sigh. “We haven’t spoken since our last mission together. Must’ve been… three weeks ago? I never got the chance to say it, but I am deeply sorry for your loss. Emily was a fine officer and she is sorely missed.”

Despite Tony’s best efforts, his lips tremble and his words falter. “I am scared, Ensign.”

A stray tear or two rolls down his cheeks. “I’ve lost so much already. My friends, my father, my… my Emily. I don’t know how to go on without…” He pulls himself together enough to say, “My life is next. And then it’s all over.”

They sit together in mutual silence while time seeps away.

Against his better judgment, Donahue lets his gaze wander once more to the distressing collection of massacred S’Prenn covering the deck plating, walls, and balconies. “I had a younger brother named Virgil.”

Surprised by this sudden change of subject, Tony shelves his self-pity and listens to his colleague.

“What a character. He was the kid who would fall out of the treehouse and then climb back in right away. He always managed to pick fights with the bigger kids, and of course it was up to his older brother to come to the rescue.” Donahue chuckles softly. “His fearlessness never failed to land him in trouble, creating these impossible situations where the odds were stacked against him and he pulled through anyway. I honestly don’t know how he did it. No matter what, he never lost his fighting spirit. Even after shattering his leg in a shuttle accident, he recovered faster than anyone I ever met. He joined Starfleet like his big brother. The whole family was so proud of him. I was proud of him, too.”

Tony braces himself for the inevitable tragedy to strike in Donahue’s story.

The ensign doesn’t keep him waiting. “Virgil served on the USS _Goddard_ , part of Earth’s defense force. He died protecting our home. Never stood a chance.” Donahue sets his jaw. “So yeah… this time his brother wasn’t around to fight off the bigger kids… I had dozens of relatives living on Earth. Nobody made it out. And when I die, so does the last member of our once happy family. It’ll be as if we never existed.” He gets to his feet and straightens up as much as the low ceiling allows. “I think we’re all scared, Lieutenant. You, me, the captain, everyone.”

Many thoughts go through Tony’s mind, many things he ought to say and share. All he can bring himself to say is, “Fair enough.” He dries his tears and inhales deeply, then locks eyes with the ensign. “Thank you for saving me.”

Donahue straps the pattern enhancers to his back and says with a congenial smile, “It’s what I do.” He hands Tony his phaser rifle and tricorder. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Tony glances at his tricorder and grumbles, “We may have some climbing to do.”

* * *

The lieutenant and the ensign make their way through another set of slimy corridors in their journey to the main computer room. Lieutenant Tony Blue makes a mental note that the first thing he will do once safely aboard the _Achilles_ is ritually burn his uniform and take an eternal sonic shower. Luckily, the S’Prenn ship’s unusual and seemingly arbitrary layout has one advantage: they didn’t have to climb up more than a handful of decks to compensate for their brief detour.

Crawling through eerie passageways harboring limitless supplies of deceased S’Prenn, Tony studies his tricorder, distracting himself from the scaly legs and squishy bodies he’s moving under and over while keeping on the lookout for sudden drops. It’s impossible to gauge how far they have to go; all he has is that arrow steering him in the right direction—presumably. These corridors, offering no room for U-turns, let alone standing up, filled with spider slush, provide the perfect breeding ground for a cozy hybrid of claustrophobia and arachnophobia.

“No doubt about it, Lieutenant,” Ensign Josh Donahue says over the familiar warble of his scanning tricorder. “They died of exposure to a volatile chemical reaction. That would account for the acidic smell.”

“Dangerous to us?” Tony asks, just to be sure. If it were indeed dangerous to humans, they would’ve started melting too by now.

“I don’t think so. I’m not a science officer, so don’t ask me about the specifics—“

“I won’t,” Tony says as he removes a loose spider appendage from inside his sleeve.

“—but this reaction is very harmful to S’Prenn biology in particular, as if it were engineered for this purpose.”

“An assault with chemical weapons?”

“Likely. Then again, there are other possible explanations, such as an accident caused by malfunctioning equipment or a medical experiment gone awry. We know so little about them, and I’m neither a biologist nor an engineer. My job is to shoot at things.”

The joke is lost on Tony, who’s too busy loathing the black slush clinging to his person, intermingling with his sweat, permeating his lungs with every inhalation. It’s enough to make anyone sick. In fact, Donahue has started gagging and making other repulsive sounds in the background. He can’t blame him; the conditions they have to work in are disgusting beyond measure.

So many questions about this place are difficult to answer. However, there is no doubt that these S’Prenn got the short end of the stick. Tony recalls an earlier attempt by the Altonoids to brainwash a group of S’Prenn. The normally docile S’Prenn had gone insane and killed everyone in sight, including the Altonoid scientists, leaving it up to him to save the day—something he used to be more proficient in with his Q powers intact. He ponders whether a similar incident doomed this vessel, if this bloodbath was caused by merciless Altonoid soldiers or by unhinged S’Prenn attacking themselves in a blind rage.

Donahue’s pace quickens. Without giving it any thought, Tony quickens his pace too. With his senses returning to the real world, he grows aware that something is amiss, as if Donahue’s reassuring presence is no longer with him. He hears the ensign hitting the bulkheads every other step despite the discomfort this must cause. Somehow afraid to speak up, and unable to look over his shoulder without losing speed, he follows his instincts and presses forward.

Heartbeat rising, Tony pushes a few buttons on his tricorder, temporarily forgoing its navigational function to activate its integrated camera and display. He points the impromptu mirror over his shoulder and tries his best to stabilize the image—no easy feat when crawling through a narrow tube. When he succeeds, he wishes he hadn’t bothered.

Ensign Donahue, the man he had a good conversation with minutes earlier, has become rabid, his skin white as snow, foam dripping down exposed teeth. He thrashes his limbs as he closes in, his face growing in size on the tricorder’s display. Disfigured spider legs, four on each side, stick out from behind his neck like skeletal fingers. A surviving S’Prenn must have lowered from the ceiling and latched onto the poor ensign. Once a S’Prenn sinks its large fangs into its victim’s brain stem, it intertwines their nervous systems and assumes control—an unpleasant process in which the subject has no chance of winning.

With fully dilated pupils locked in a furious scowl, and speaking like someone unaccustomed to possessing vocal cords and a human mouth, Donahue hisses, “Stop!”

Unable to suppress a terrified scream, Tony upgrades his hasty retreat to an outright scramble for the end of this passageway, though there is no escape plan besides getting as far away from the mutated ensign as possible. His elbows and knees are sore already, and tunnel vision caused by his fight-or-flight response only serves to elongate this nightmarish corridor. It might impair his speed a little, but his hands remain glued to his tricorder and rifle, the latter’s flashlight shining erratically ahead.

No matter how fast he goes, what’s left of Donahue is right behind him, clawing at his ankles. The S’Prenned ensign is nothing short of irate. “Come back!” he commands in an otherworldly voice sending shivers down Tony’s spine.

Tony catches a face full of dead S’Prenn hanging from the ceiling and uses the back of his hand to knock its remains away from his eyes and nose. This slows him down enough for the livid ensign to grab him by the shoe and stab deformed fingernails through its fabric and into his foot. Wincing in pain, he kicks Donahue in the head and breaks free at the cost of losing his right shoe. The bloodcurdling cry this elicits from his attacker distracts him from the fact that his sock has become soggy already.

Ensign Josh Donahue is a good officer and, from what Tony could gather in the brief time he has known him, a good person as well. As much as he hates the idea of having to hurt his colleague, Tony cannot allow this chase to continue.

While trying to maintain velocity, he raises his phaser rifle and makes several attempts to point it at his chaser, but the rifle keeps getting jammed between the bulkheads. With a sinking feeling, it dawns on him that in a space this cramped, turning his rifle around is physically impossible, rendering him defenseless. The one upside is that he is free to use the rifle to light his escape path, and he spots another hazardous intersection with a long drop.

With the ensign hot on his trail, he picks a random corridor in a hopeless effort to shake off his pursuer. His stomach churns as he crosses the hundred-foot-deep chasm and enters the left hallway. Too late, he realizes he could’ve used the juncture to rotate his rifle, but it is impossible to think straight with busloads of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Moments after he has entered the corridor, he hears Donahue—uncoordinated as the ensign is with a giant spider controlling him—plummet into the gap, his limbs clattering against rock-solid bulkheads.

Out of caution, Tony rushes onward for another thirty feet before stopping. With a trembling hand, he lifts his tricorder, which is still doubling as mirror. Distant light from the SIMs beacon Donahue must have shed during his violent transformation scarcely pierces the darkness. He listens for signs of activity, but he can’t hear anything over his panting. Donahue must be at the bottom of the pit—wounded or worse. Not the fate he deserved, but at least Tony is out of danger.

As he catches his breath and terror yields to fatigue, he permits himself to drop to the deck. He considers shouting after the ensign, but it’s no use… Donahue is either dead or still S’Prenned. “I’m sorry, Josh. I really am,” he says, wiping filth off his tricorder with his filthier sleeve and ending up with a smudged screen. As he selects the navigation program, the sound of someone clawing his way up the vertical corridor threatens to reignite his hyperventilation.

Careful not to make any noise, Tony gets a move on to increase the distance between him and the junction behind him, undeterred by the navigation arrow on his tricorder indicating he’s going in the wrong direction. Slush clings to his hair, skin, and clothes, filling his nose with an acidic stink. His right sock makes a nauseating squishy sound with everything it connects with, be it deck plating or yet another unidentifiable spider body part.

The rattling of his pursuer climbing the corridor shaft ceases abruptly. Before Tony can jump to conclusions, Donahue yells from the intersection, “Get back here!” and recommences pursuit. It is difficult for Tony to rely on his hearing while panting and scuttling, but Donahue seems to be gaining on him.

A shallow pool of thick sludge conceals the floor, deepening as the fleeing lieutenant progresses. Belatedly, he notices the corridor declines at a faint angle. Despite his regained tunnel vision, he discerns rows of tiny rooms to his left and right, their open doors revealing lifeless S’Prenn. Without an angry monster going after him, these living quarters would have intrigued him. Now he just dismisses them. He is already having trouble lifting his tricorder and rifle clear of the sludge.

Entering this corridor was a mistake. The ensign is catching up with him, noisily splashing around while traversing the same slush. Tony will have to make do with the cards he has been dealt, so he presses on, even though the acidic mire has risen to his chin. The lumps in the sludge are the worst, and he has to work hard to keep from freaking out. There is no time to vomit or cry; there is only the need to survive.

His left hand slips and he almost swallows a mouthful of muck. Frantically, he spits out the spiders’ remains and wipes his mouth with his free hand, all the while sustaining his momentum. Then it hits him: his tricorder is gone! Without it, he is lost in this labyrinth of horrors. It must be close by, yet there is no opportunity whatsoever for him to retrieve it. He can already hear Donahue hissing at him, and as far as Tony can see with his flashlight occasionally submerged, the corridor continues to slope downward.

“You know what? Enough of this!” He sets his rifle on a high setting and fires away at the slush, thereby giving the corridor and the tiny residences an unnerving orange hue, as if they’ve been set ablaze. Unable to maintain a steady aim, Tony sweeps an irregular path as his rifle’s phaser beam vaporizes the liquids, leaving singed S’Prenn fragments in its wake. The laws of physics are unavoidable and fresh muck flows in from the far end of the corridor. This is by no means a permanent solution, but he keeps the trigger squeezed and sloshes onward, even though Donahue is also taking advantage of the path Tony clears. As opposed to the lieutenant, he doesn’t seem to be tiring.

Finally, Tony catches a break and detects a gap in the ceiling, a vertical corridor leading to higher decks, which is a welcome change from corridors leading to an endless fall. Grateful for a chance of escaping this passageway from hell, he clambers into the vertical shaft, making sure he rotates his phaser rifle so it points down.

It’s great to have plenty of headroom for once. Intersecting decks provide him with handhold and foothold for his rapid ascent. The pain and hopelessness he felt seconds ago have evaporated as he positions his feet on two adjacent hallways and takes aim with his rifle. The right hallway entrance stinging his shoeless foot doesn’t compromise his determination in the slightest. Roughly eight meters below him, the horizontal corridor he fled is slowly filling with slush. Donahue is audibly wallowing through it, closing in on him, while Tony’s flashlight shines at the intersection like a spotlight failing to locate the lead actor. “Come on, show yourself,” Tony says through his teeth.

Leaning back, his free hand planted on the nearby bulkhead, he tries to calm his breathing. It’s a challenging shot, and accidentally shooting himself in the leg is not going to help, so he aims his lowered rifle at the exact center of the clearing, his biceps twitching with tension.

There he is! At the first sign of movement, Tony pulls the trigger. Pure phaser energy illuminates the area as it travels down the shaft in a split second and vaporizes the sludge directly below. Donahue scampers off while fresh muck gushes in to cover buckled deck plating. Tony has missed his target, but he has made his point.

Being in charge of the situation refuels Tony’s depleted energy reserves. “You didn’t expect that, did you?” he shouts, nearly losing his footing. After a wave of vertigo, he regains his balance and commands himself to stay focused. His enraged colleague makes another loud approach, so Tony steadies his rifle in its downward aim and waits. _It’s like shooting spiders in a barrel_ , he thinks and immediately hates himself for the terrible pun.

Donahue shows his pale face again, his white fangs reflective in the flashlight’s beam, and Tony pulls the trigger, this time striking the pattern enhancers the ensign is carrying. Leaving a trail of sparks, the growling ensign scurries off as if chased by the devil himself. Without further hesitation, Tony climbs up, forbidding himself to fret over how the odds of him getting off this ship have all but vanished now that he has inadvertently damaged the pattern enhancers. After each three-deck ascent, he fires a shot, just to be safe, but Donahue keeps out of sight. He must still be down there, preparing for another assault, infuriated by his target’s defiance.

Fatigue forces its way back into Tony’s system. That and his grimy hands, missing shoe, sodden clothes, and having to hold on to his rifle increases his chances of slipping and falling every second he prolongs his stay in this corridor shaft, so he deactivates his flashlight and dives into the nearest hallway. Crawling on all fours again, he proceeds as quietly as possible. The purple hue at the end of the tunnel is a more than adequate replacement for the false sense of security his flashlight gave him.

Tony is relieved to discover that, after following the purple glow into a left turn, the corridor opens up into an area where he can stand. He takes another left through an almost humanoid-sized doorway and enters a storage room littered with anti-grav units, packing materials, and decaying S’Prenn—a mishmash of black and purple bound by faint light. He should check if they’re really dead; escaping Donahue’s ire will be rendered moot if he winds up S’Prenned himself. He shudders at the thought but realizes checking every nook and cranny is too impractical. As soon as he is convinced his disappearing act fooled his pursuer, going back to look for his tricorder is the next logical step, yet he is already having trouble remembering how he got here. With no other options available, he sits down opposite the doorway and waits, too scared to change his lifted phaser rifle’s setting back to stun.

Now that Tony has transitioned from running to hiding, he notices a fang sticking out of his right sock. Without flinching, he yanks it out of his foot and casts it aside, leaving a trickle of blood in its place. Banning disgust and overexertion from his mind, he urges himself to listen. He will not allow himself to contemplate the mess he’s in—literally and figuratively—while he remains in danger.

Somewhere out there, the mighty _Achilles_ hangs in space, ready to whisk him to safety, teams of trained security officers standing by. They might as well be in another galaxy for all the good it will do him here, trapped in the catacombs of a S’Prenn derelict, lost in its maze, surrounded by death, hounded by a former crewmate, exhausted, dirty, injured, and most of all… very alone.

He has been here before.

He had forgotten, moved on. So much had happened so quickly after that fateful day forever changed his existence. He tries to resist, tries to concentrate on staying vigilant, but a sudden upsurge of memories tears through the walls he set up and forgot about in another lifetime.

He was so young—thirteen—when the Borg invaded the space station in which he and his father resided. He had always felt protected and complacent until the invasion shattered that childlike illusion. Mere seconds after the intruder alert went off, cybernetic beings beamed into the station and began their indiscriminate killing and assimilating spree. A tactical drone shot his father—fatally, Tony had believed. In a state of shock, he fled deeper and deeper into the station, hemmed in by panic and chaos. The Borg were everywhere, taking people left and right, growing more resilient to phaser fire with every hit they took. Dozens of people died or were claimed by the Borg to join their collective of mindless cyborgs. He had sought shelter in a maintenance alcove, whimpering to himself, praying the mechanical zombies wouldn’t find him.

The Borg’s unified voices haunt the corridors and assert resistance is futile, occasionally drowned out by phaser fire and screams. They are calling for him. They will find him huddled in a corner of this alcove and kill him; or worse, enslave him, replace organs and limbs with machinery, his thoughts with theirs, forcing him to bow to their will until they deem him unworthy of repair. He is absolutely defenseless.

No, he is not.

He is holding a phaser rifle. During the Borg attack, he was unarmed. Cold to his aching fingers, the rifle’s grip reassures him. The rifle’s weight empowers him. And with that realization, Tony snaps out of it and returns to the present, to the S’Prenn storage room and its dim purple lighting, to the angry snarling and panting of someone in the adjacent corridor.

Tony scrambles to his feet and takes a squishy step back. He hears Donahue stop dead in his tracks. He has been spotted! The S’Prenned ensign lets out a hair-raising shriek before dashing toward the room’s entrance. With a racing heartbeat, Tony readies his rifle, fully prepared to defend himself.

He didn’t expect the good ensign to crawl in on the ceiling.

Too shocked to react sensibly, Tony stares open-mouthed at the upside-down abomination, feeling like a fly caught in its web. Donahue sticks to the ceiling, defying gravity, and his head swivels in an unnatural angle, locking opaque eyes on his helpless prey. It takes Tony a handful of precious seconds to regain the presence of mind to raise his phaser rifle and aim it at his attacker. Too little, too late.

Using his full body weight, the ensign springs off the ceiling, extending his six arms (four of which arachnid in nature), and grabs his target with torso-crushing force. This knocks the wind out of Tony’s lungs and the phaser rifle out of his hands, and the lieutenant bangs his head against the deck plating. Bright spots dance around in his vision as the ensign pins him down, his morbidly pale face mere inches away, growling at him, ready to bite his throat out. Tony closes his eyes and waits for Donahue to strike.

Yet, the ensign hesitates, as if brutally murdering him isn’t going to satisfy his bloodlust. Donahue’s voice sounds throaty and not his own when he screeches, “How can you live with what you’ve done?”

Tony slowly opens his eyes and watches in disgust as foamy saliva drips from Donahue’s fangs. The hellish face hovering above him leaves him at a temporary loss for words. “I don’t know what… Am I supposed to answer that question, or…?”

Not the reply Donahue was looking for. He tightens his grip on Tony’s waist, squeezing his victim’s ribs with four spider arms to such a degree that inhaling becomes impossible. “You deserve a more painful death than I can grant you.”

Fruitlessly trying to draw breath, Tony feels his ribs nearing their breaking point, rendering him unable to plead for his life, ineffective as it would be; there’s no mercy in his captor’s disfigured expression. Eight trembling spider legs belonging to the S’Prenn controlling him stick out from behind Donahue’s neck.

Struck by a sudden insight, Tony recalls the ensign started the mission with a handphaser secured to his belt. He might be able to reach it and subdue his assailant.

“You have seen the mayhem you have caused,” Donahue hisses. “And if only that were all. If only.” His face contorts in a ghoulish attempt at a smile. Tony stretches his right hand as much as the scaly arms allow until his fingernails scratch Donahue’s phaser holster. It is empty.

That’s it. That was his one chance of escape.

Donahue notices this and explains with the same twisted smile framing his fangs, “I tried to shoot you, Lieutenant, vaporize you, but the energy weapon slipped from my grasp. Humanoid bodies are clumsy.” He looks away suddenly, lost in thought, but unrelenting in choking his prisoner.

With his attacker’s head turned, Tony has a decent view of the S’Prenn wedged between the ensign’s neck and the pattern enhancers. It is severely injured and mutilated beyond healing. Its mental faculties must have been affected as well. With regained ferociousness, Donahue snaps his head back at Tony while his tight grip drains the life from the defenseless lieutenant.

“You couldn’t stand our rebellion, could you?” Donahue shrieks, his complexion a lurid purple in the storage room’s light. “You had to hunt us down. One by one, we fell. And when that wasn’t enough…”

Gagging and wheezing, Tony fights to stay conscious. The world around him is already growing dark and distant, as if someone else is experiencing this ordeal. A brief tug on his shoulders lifts him up, only to shove him back to the floor and back to the moment.

Donahue releases his crushing hold a little, enabling Tony to gulp for air. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily, Lieutenant.” Doubt flashes across Donahue’s visage, gone as quickly as it came. “The chemical weapon you deployed on our ship was very elegant, I must concede. Biting through every living thing, melting us from the inside out. I can sense its acid in my system.” He pulls Tony in closer until there’s barely an inch between them.

To Tony’s astonishment, Donahue’s lips begin to quiver and his bulging eyes with their fully dilated pupils convey unequivocal sorrow.

“The pain, the ineffable anguish coursing through my veins as my friends succumbed. Helpless, I watched them melt. None were spared. Some tried to flee, some tried to seek concealment, some went mad and slaughtered their loved ones… tore them limb from limb. Others gathered in search of support, reprieve from the horrors. Sooner or later, everyone was reduced to gurgled screams and cries.”

Tony listens in shocked silence.

Hot tears roll down Donahue’s cheeks. “I watched the children dissolve, screaming for as long as their lungs existed. Then, as rivers of dead S’Prenn formed, the crescendo of screams diminished and faded. All became quiet.”

This time it’s not the chokehold that robs Tony of his breath, for now he sees that the S’Prenn controlling his colleague is acting out of suffering rather than malice. He lies there face to face with a S’Prenn, a person, who has gone through hell and back.

“I… I waited for death to release me from those images.” Donahue’s joyless chuckle sounds as otherworldly as his other attempts at vocalization. “No, not me. I was destined to roam this derelict, guard those I have failed, and be tormented indefinitely, plagued by memories and agony, indescribable agony—” His sad expression morphs into a baffled one, as if he cannot comprehend why the humanoid he has captured mirrors his grief.

Tony can’t help but sympathize with the poor soul. Hoarse with emotion, he says with complete sincerity, “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

Confused, Donahue strains to push himself away a slight bit. Only now does Tony notice how utterly exhausted and weakened his opponent has become. Donahue glances around, pondering and frowning. “Lieutenant…” He gives Tony a scrutinizing look. “You are not the enemy.”

Stifling a sigh of relief, Tony wants to say something along the lines of “on the nose.” Instead, he says in a clear and calm manner, “I am not an Altonoid. I am human.”

Donahue’s gaze drifts off while the S’Prenn deciphers his memory. “You are Lieutenant Tony Blue. You were Commander Tony Q. You have fought us in our days of confusion and fought alongside us in our days of understanding. You are as much an enemy of the Altonoids as we are.”

“The Altonoids are using your brainwashed compatriots to wage war on us.” This draws Donahue’s attention again, his intimidating appearance a disconcerting sight even though they are on the same page now. “They ravaged our home world, Earth, and swiftly moved from planet to planet until we were either annihilated or cast out. They could not have done this without subjugating the S’Prenn.” With Donahue listening, Tony’s resolve supplants his subsiding fear. “Our ship, the _Achilles_ , is trapped behind enemy lines. Our mission is to find out how to reclaim our territory. Regaining your support is vital.”

“Tony Q,” Donahue says, his voice a guttural whisper. “Tony Q has proven his worth over and over.” Before Tony can admit he is no longer this legendary figure, Donahue reels him in close. “Your efforts are not in vain. The Altonoids’ rule over us can be reversed. There is a cure. We can be freed.” 

“A cure? Tell me more.”

Weakening further, Donahue struggles to concentrate. “Tony Q will fight for us once more. Tony Q will heal us.” Life ebbs from him and his grip loosens accordingly.

“Please! Tell me, what is this cure? Where do I find it?”

With a weary smile plastered onto his face, Donahue gazes into nothingness and keeps repeating, “Tony Q will save us,” while the mortally wounded S’Prenn gradually loses control over Donahue’s nervous system.

“Tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t… If I…” Tony shoves aside the four spiderlike arms and embraces Donahue as the S’Prenn gently rests its host’s body against him. He doesn’t know if a S’Prenn understands the consolation a simple hug can bring, but he hopes it will comfort the dying alien somehow.

Perhaps it does matter, because Donahue stops repeating his mantra and lets himself wilt in Tony’s arms. With Donahue’s neck so nearby, Tony stares into the soulless eyes of the melted S’Prenn offset by blackened pattern enhancers. Donahue presses his mouth against Tony’s ear and collects the energy needed to utter his final words. “Once freed,” he whispers, using his last vestige of strength to instill his voice with vile and bitter hatred. “We shall retaliate!”

This vindictive promise echoes in Tony’s mind as the S’Prenn relinquishes his possession of Donahue and expires. Unable to hold on, his arachnid corpse slumps off the ensign’s neck, bounces off Tony’s shoulder, and lands in the muck to join his fallen comrades.

Seconds creep by as Tony tries to ignore his aching ribs in favor of processing these events. Donahue’s limp body weighs on him, but Tony is too stunned to do anything about it. Instead, he cradles his motionless colleague and thinks about the repercussions of what the dying S’Prenn has told him. Was he telling the truth? Is there a cure available? Or was it nothing more than the idle ramblings of a physically and emotionally scarred individual completing its descent into madness? Regardless, the enticing possibility of ending the Altonoids’ dominion over the S’Prenn warrants further investigation. It would indeed turn the tide of the war.

Yet, lying here in this ship rife with gruesomeness and waning tragedies, he decides the mere act of freeing the S’Prenn, of making sure their costly rebellion meant something, made the difference, is enough for him.

That’s when Donahue opens his coal-black eyes and starts screaming at the top of his lungs.


	3. Chapter II

Despite his bruised ribs, Lieutenant Tony Blue does an admirable job matching Ensign Josh Donahue’s overture of terrified screams. The ensign, still pinning Tony down, grabs at his neck to make sure the dying S’Prenn is really gone. It is. However, his screaming intensifies as his fingers reach his deformed face with its protruding fangs and bulging eyes, and develops into outright shrieking when he touches the four spiderlike arms that have burst from his sides.

Tony rivals his colleague’s horrific shrieks for a good ten seconds. Then, as if on cue, they both go silent and stare at each other with no idea what to do or say next. The ensign lying in his arms appears to be on the verge of tears and the situation’s awkwardness is at maximum anyway, so Tony gives him a big hug and says, “Welcome back, Josh.”

This has the desired soothing effect, and Josh gently pushes himself away from the lieutenant. With a great amount of effort, he summons his mutated body to straighten up, and he raises his arms to the ceiling. To his disgust and fascination, his new spider arms move in tandem with their human counterparts. However, when one of the arms starts twitching, he goes down on all eights and empties his stomach on the grimy floor.

As is becoming a theme of late, Tony’s empathy wins out over revulsion. “I’ve had my share of dealings with the S’Prenn.” His encyclopedic tone is meant to reassure them both. “Being taken over by one is called being S’Prenned.”

Josh gives him a sidelong glance, his charcoal eyes sorrowful, seemingly begging him for good news.

“If a S’Prenn releases its host of its own volition, the host will make a complete recovery.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Josh asks in a croaky voice, the first intelligible words he has spoken since regaining control over his vocal cords.

“If the S’Prenn is forcefully detached or killed?” He hesitates. “Instant death.”

“Yes. I remember. The S’Prenn released his hold on me before he died so I would live. Physically, I will revert to normal in a few days.”

Tony sits up slowly. “Possibly sooner once we get you to sickbay.” Then it hits him. “Wait, how would you know that?”

Josh, using his arachnid arms without thinking, crawls over to the dead S’Prenn lying next to Tony and kneels beside it. The half-melted spider lies supine in the muck, gruesome yet peaceful, its disfigured legs flexed. “His name was Kronn. He was an engineer who lived with his family on this ship. When the Altonoids attacked and everyone started dying, he tried to protect his and his friends’ children. He thought he could keep them safe. He couldn’t—” His breath hitches. “They died in front of—“

“I know,” Tony says to quell the lump forming in his throat.

“They look so different from us.” Moisture in Josh’s enlarged pupils reflect the scarce light around them. “Yet their concepts of love and family are so similar to ours.”

“He gave you his memories, didn’t he?”

“All that was left.”

“No S’Prenn has ever done that, as far as I recall.”

“Lucky, lucky me,” Josh says, followed by a sad chuckle.

“Lucky, lucky you.” Tony inhales deeply, only to be reminded of his injuries. He may not share the ensign’s temporary deformities, but he feels a total mess anyhow.

Josh takes another look at Kronn’s corpse. “He put me through hell… but I can’t blame him. The poor bastard was at the end of his rope.”

“Ensign, I need to know,” Tony says, waiting until he has Josh’s undivided attention. “Kronn spoke of a cure. Do you remember?”

Josh stands up, strength returning to his limbs, and extends an arm—a human arm, fortunately—to help the battered chief tactical officer to his feet. “I remember, as vividly as the death of Kronn’s children. The cure is real.”

Relief and newfound determination cast aside Tony’s discomfort and fill him with confidence, yet all he can bring himself to say is, “Good,” and in a flat tone at that.

Josh unbuckles his shoulder strap and three singed pattern enhancers drop to the floor. They became scrap metal the instant Tony phasered them. The ensign accesses a computer interface near the doorway. “I can resolve the interference from here. We, or rather Kronn and his fellow engineers, created it as a last defense to keep Altonoids from beaming into vital areas after the shields failed.” He pauses and lowers his gaze. “Clever.”

Tony is too lost in thought to reply. With an actual cure on the horizon, the Federation might overthrow the Altonoids at long last. This gives them a clear purpose, but it also increases the pressure they’re under. If only the _Achilles_ weren’t alone in her crucial mission.

“Interference resolved,” Josh says while using his arachnid arms to operate the computer. “We should contact Commanders Crow and Terrell.”

“I think they already heard our screaming.” Tony presses his combadge. “Lieutenant Blue to Commander Crow.”

“ _Finally._ ” Cranky and impatient rather than relieved. Figures.

“You must’ve been worried sick,” Tony says in a wry tone and immediately regrets it. His sarcasm may be a reflex, but why does he keep forgetting the new XO doesn’t have a detectable sense of humor?

A faint grumble confirms this. “ _What happened down there? What’s your status?_ ”

Frankly, neither Tony nor Josh know where to begin.

* * *

Lieutenant Tony Blue and Ensign Josh Donahue have arrived in the computer core control room at last. With the interference taken care of, the _Achilles_ simply beamed them there, an anticlimactic but welcome conclusion to their journey. Crow and Terrell stayed put to confer with the captain via their combadges. The S’Prenn wreckage is theirs now, and Josh is working the many computer interfaces like he has done so all his life. In a way, he has.

Tony is grateful this multideck chamber permits humanoids to stand upright. He has propped himself against a support strut, phaser rifle held across his chest in a firm grip, and looks on as the ensign zigzags across the room, using six arms to bow the ship’s computer to his will. Its interfaces are as black as the bulkheads they’re on and light up in purple when touched. It is a mesmerizing sight, or it would be, if Tony hadn’t suddenly felt a wave of homesickness. Not to the _Achilles_ , mind you. No, to his dad’s cottage overlooking San Francisco. Seven months he had spent there, from the onset of summer to the end of winter, reconnecting with his father and falling in love over and over with Emily. Memory colludes with nostalgia and therefore cannot be trusted, and that period saw the rise of war as gradual as the loss of hope, but he would barter his soul to plant his bare feet in that backyard’s grass and listen to the laugh of his then-fiancée once more.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

He must be in a pretty sorry state to be asked this by Ensign Spidey. “Carry on, Mr. Donahue.”

“You’re worried about that cure, aren’t you? That we won’t find any more info on it?”

“Uh… Sure.”

“No need. Though the database is damaged and incomplete,”—Josh casually scales the bulkheads and ceiling to access another interface terminal—“it remains a goldmine of information.”

“Bloody hell,” Tony says to the upside-down ensign with the ghoulish face. “Could you at least warn me before you go all Fred Astaire on me?”

Before Josh can no doubt ask to whom Tony is referring, two swirls of blue light transport Commanders Crow and Terrell into the room. They’re in their white EV suits, immaculate and untarnished—quite a contrast to the two colleagues they sent ahead. Crow and Terrell gawk at the pale mutant clinging to the ceiling and drop Tony and Josh’s EV suits in order to reach for their weapons: a handphaser for Crow and an isomagnetic disintegrator for Terrell. If fired, the disintegrator would take out the ensign and half the room with it.

“Don’t!” Tony shouts as he fumbles for his rifle and sets it to stun. “That’s Donahue!”

It takes a while for Crow and Terrell to recognize the ensign. Tony keeps his rifle at the ready just in case fear gets the better of them.

Then, Erin Crow reattaches her phaser to her suit but keeps staring wide-eyed at their mutated colleague. “Stand down, Commander,” she says to Terrell.

Jon Terrell puts down his shoulder-mounted weapon and gapes at the many decaying S’Prenn blanketing the floor and bulkheads. For the first time since Tony has known him, the chief engineer has nothing witty to say. He just spins around slowly, taking in the grisly environment.

Crow composes herself and nods at the EV suits they dropped. “We brought your suits.”

Tony leans back against the pillar. “Keep it. I could use a clean uniform, though.”

“You sure do.” She purses her lips in a grimace that almost conveys pity. Tony is on the verge of growing accustomed to traipsing around with a bleeding, shoeless foot and being soaked head to toe in spider muck of varying solidity, but he and the ensign must be quite a pitiful spectacle. “Ensign, I have your EV suit here if you want it.”

“It wouldn’t fit anymore,” Donahue says as he lets go of the ceiling and lands next to Terrell, who then needs a moment to jumpstart his respiratory system. “I need your help, Commander Terrell. The ship’s in worse condition than we feared.” He points his left arms at the main server. “I have accessed the ship’s database. We’ll need to find a way to merge it with our own.”

A soft “blimey” is all the response he gets from the chief engineer.

“We were scared too, Jon,” Tony says, “until we underwent extensive exposure therapy… I can only speak for myself, but you get used to it. Kind of.”

“A nightmare is what this is.”

“Oh, I won’t deny that. But being the first Starfleet engineer to set foot in a S’Prenn computer room has to be a dream come true.”

This elicits a nervous chuckle. “You’re right, Tony. I just need a minute.” Terrell’s breathing normalizes soon after, and he straightens his back and follows Donahue to a set of interfaces.

As the odd couple walks off, Crow removes her helmet and places it atop the pile of rejected EV suits. She steps closer to Tony and gives him a quick visual inspection. “Where’s your tricorder?”

“Somewhere near my right shoe.” He points at his right sock and wiggles his toes for the strict commander, who expresses her disapproval with a deep sigh. She refrains from responding for a long while, and Tony doesn’t have to be clairvoyant to sense an incoming admonishment.

“You did well,” she says instead. “We needed this mission to succeed. We needed this… small victory.” They take a moment to look at Terrell and Donahue collaborating. “This could’ve gone so much worse.” There’s tiredness in her eyes and voice. She becomes aware of this as soon she meets Tony’s gaze and seems startled by her letting down her guard. Her countenance galvanizes to that of the coldhearted officer she aspires to be. “You need medical attention, Lieutenant. Your work here is done. I suggest you contact the _Achilles_ and have them beam you to sickbay.”

“No, ma’am.” Tony tightens his grip on his phaser rifle. “I’m not going anywhere until the database upload is complete and the entire away team ready for beam-out.”

His defiance is met with a three-star scowl at first, which then morphs into a prolonged thoughtful expression and ultimately a weak smile. “I understand. You do that, Tony.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze before heading over to Terrell and Donahue.

Tony’s visit to this S’Prenn wreck has been rife with twists and surprises, but that smile and shoulder squeeze top his personal list of today’s unexpected events.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 13, 2386 – Stardate 63527.1**

Of course he should be asleep at this hour, but Captain Stephan Rinckes is still in uniform and monitoring the crew’s studying every corner of the S’Prenn wreckage. His quarters’ windows offer a perfect view of the shuttles and other spacecraft the _Achilles_ could spare surrounding the crippled bulk like flies swarming a dead body. Brave men and women in EV suits are stripping its outer hull with plasma torches while tethered to their vehicles. All this activity gives the S’Prenn ship the aspect of a decomposing spider the size of a hill, a silenced behemoth undergoing its final rites by the desperate.

At least it wasn’t a trap.

Transfixed, the captain stands at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the S’Prenn ship, the first of its kind to be analyzed by the Federation after nearly a decade of mystery. Any scientist or engineer would donate a non-essential body part for the chance of picking apart one of these. It is doubtful if its technology is readily compatible with theirs, but the gained insights alone could prove vital, not to mention the importance of the precious contents of its database.

This lucky break sparks in him a fleeting scientific curiosity he had considered extinct. After surviving the infamous Battle of Wolf 359, during which the Borg massacred 39 Federation vessels, Rinckes—a lieutenant commander back then—had lost his appetite for the security division. He had requested a transfer to a science vessel, and the admiralty made him first officer of the _Cochrane_. He spent his six-year tenure as XO on that small _Oberth_ -class ship overseeing uneventful transport missions, scientific exploration, and interstellar charting. His colleagues and especially his captain were eagerly curious about the workings of the universe and their enthusiasm was infectious.

It was the closest he had ever come to being at peace with himself.

In those years, conflicts were brooding, culminating in another Borg invasion and the onset of the Dominion War, which occurred one month after Rinckes took command of a science vessel of his own, the brand-new _Solar Field_. Peacetime was over, though the fledgling captain took on every available science mission in a bid to hold on to his new persona.

His venture into the art of science was bookended by a Borg cube vaporizing the completely evacuated _Solar Field_ in 2379, right before Tony Q interfered and rescued the Federation once more with his near-infinite powers.

When given the _Sundance_ , Rinckes held the reins of a powerful combat cruiser that found itself on the frontline, dealing with the Altonoids, who in turn made sure his battle skills were put to the test continuously. The transition from a peaceful man to a warrior was—to his regret—as easy as switching uniform jackets.

Fatigue engulfs him; belatedly so, considering midnight crept by and vanished into this sleepless night hours ago. Mesmerized by the orderly chaos on display, he pulls up a chair and eases his tired body into it. Watching his talented crew’s efforts fills him with a sense of pride that warms what should pass for his heart. They’re good people, the whole lot of them. One misstep on his part, one wrong snap decision, one slight tactical error, and all those souls will be extinguished by a cold universe indifferent to their plight.

When he lost the _Solar Field_ , he lost his ship. When he lost the _Sundance_ , he lost his crew. He neglected them, abandoned them in favor of searching for Melanie, her one life outweighing all others on scales imbalanced by infatuation.

He had charmed his way out of it, fooled the admirals and the Federation council. The Altonoids had unwittingly destroyed all evidence and killed all witnesses of the poor excuse for a captain he was that day. He had gotten away with it, had believed his failure to protect those under his command to be justified—a delusion given credence by his assignment to the formidable _Achilles_.

Stirred by these musings, Rinckes rises from his seat, walks over to his desk, and picks up an isolinear chip lying atop an assortment of PADDs. On it is information exclusive to this chip; the _Achilles_ ’ database has been purged of it, the captain saw to that. He clenches his fist around it, its edges burrowing into his skin. He ought to keep it secured in one of his desk’s encrypted drawers, but it always manages to find its way to the top of the pile. Unable to sweep this under the rug as casually as his lamentable behavior during the Station A-12 Debacle, this physical manifestation of his guilt is here to stay—for now.

Rinckes places the chip back on the pile and returns to his ringside seat. Outside, two shuttles tear loose a section of S’Prenn hull plating, exposing its underlying decks.

_I cannot be held accountable for actions kept secret. I can only keep history from repeating itself._

* * *

“Computer! Lights!”

Obedient as ever, the computer raises the light level in Lieutenant Tony Blue’s quarters, thereby scaring off yet another imaginary parade of Altonoids, Borg, and S’Prenn. Tony kicks aside the stifling bed sheets, allowing the climate-controlled air to cool his sweat-drenched pajamas while he waits for the rush of adrenaline to wear off. It wasn’t a nightmare that made him feel like parrying a strangler’s hold; his nightly anxiety attacks don’t permit him the luxury of REM sleep before bombarding him with images of ruined cities, unbeatable enemies, and dead relatives.

Ever since his return from the S’Prenn vessel, after making absolutely sure his away team was in safe hands, falling asleep has been a problem. While he does fall asleep eventually, he has to suffer through a series of panic attacks whenever he dares to enter the realm one travels prior to losing consciousness, until he is too exhausted to care and surrenders to the horrors that await him.

He has somehow escaped the clutches of his bed and pajamas and made his way into the sonic shower, which rids his body of its sweaty film and emits a gentle hum as it cleans him with sound waves. He takes a deep breath, his healed ribs free of pain. In these instances, reality is preferable to dreaming.

Once he has stepped out of the shower, he contemplates fetching himself a fresh set of pajamas and taking another spin on the wheel of night terrors. No matter how alluring and comfortable that bed may seem, it has become a trap. Besides, what’s the point of stepping into bed when there’s always one person missing?

Tony selects a uniform with the right department color in one go and puts it on. He relishes in its neatness—such a far cry from the soggy mess he wore on the S’Prenn ship—and heads out, planning to check in on Josh, whose S’Prenn features have visibly diminished each passing day. The valiant ensign had spent every waking moment assisting the away teams with his unique knowledge until the doctor ordered him to report to sickbay, not so much to rest as to sate the doctor’s boundless curiosity about S’Prenn physiology.

At this hour, the corridors are always quiet, but with half the crew analyzing and dismantling the S’Prenn wreckage, the _Achilles_ seems deserted, and Tony arrives at sickbay’s entrance in no time. Its twin doors swish open in front of him, and a fully human Ensign Josh Donahue comes marching out. To prevent collision, they grab each other by the upper arms as if they’re about to initiate an impromptu dance act.

“I just sent him out,” an unseen Doctor Kingsley says from within sickbay. “Could you try not injuring him again?”

“Sorry, Doc.” Tony directs the ensign to the opposite corridor bulkhead where they can talk without the doctor riffing their every sentence. “How are you doing, Josh?”

Nothing about his appearance suggests Josh has endured the last three days as a human/spider hybrid. All deformities have vanished, leaving no scars, his skin tone has reclaimed its healthy shade, and his eyes are friendly and hazel instead of dilated and coal-black. “You were right. I’m good as new.”

Despite Tony’s bleariness, he simpers while saying, “Be honest, do you miss your ability to climb walls?”

The ensign chuckles. “I do, yes, but the worst thing is I’ve no excuse left to cancel this month’s piano recital.”

“Don’t be so modest. I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re a natural entertainer.”

“I guess, but those spider arms sure would’ve come in handy during La Campanella.”

As their joviality fades, the seriousness of the past couple of days pushes to the forefront like an unwanted guest. No escaping it now; they might as well acknowledge it. “What you went through was quite an ordeal, Ensign. If this doesn’t earn you an official commendation, then—”

“Then that would be all right. I’m glad to be of service.” A trace of sadness crosses his features for the briefest of moments, a sadness Tony recognizes all too well—the kind that is meant to be hidden but emerges nonetheless.

“Kronn’s memories never left, did they?”

Josh sighs. “A blessing and a curse. The captain asked me to record every iota of valuable intelligence, especially regarding the cure. Soon, we’ll leave this area for good.”

“But that won’t be the end of it.”

“Not for me.”

“If only psychological trauma healed as quickly as its physical counterpart.” Tony offers him a drowsy but earnest smile. “Hang in there, Ensign.” He pats him on the shoulder and starts toward sickbay’s entrance, but Josh isn’t done with him yet.

“Lieutenant, before you go. I… it wasn’t my fault, but I keep reliving how I chased you down the corridors and hurt you, almost… killed you.”

“It’s not like you had a say in the matter.”

“I was present, conscious, from beginning to end. Maybe if I’d tried harder to fight off Kronn’s mind control—”

“No, no, let me be clear about this. You are _not_ to blame. I’ve dealt with S’Prenned people before. They all fought back, and none succeeded. It’s a biological impossibility to regain control without the S’Prenn’s permission.”

The ensign needs a few seconds to let that sink in. “I’m still sorry, Lieutenant.” The way Josh stands there, arms hanging by his side, his posture crumpled, Tony can’t help but feel bad for him.

Of course, this automatically deploys Tony’s sarcasm. “Yeah, well, without you I would’ve drowned in a pool of S’Prenn limbs in that vertical corridor, so there’s that. Also, most people would’ve freaked out or gone catatonic after having been puppeteered by an insane S’Prenn. Not you; how you’ve handled it so far is nothing short of impressive. Give yourself a little credit, man.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Josh says, the shine returning to his eyes.

“I spoke to Gibbs about you, and he’s impressed as well.” Tony makes for the sickbay doors, which open for him promptly. “If he doesn’t recommend you for promotion this year, I’ll have him committed.”

Without missing a beat, the as-yet-unseen Doctor Kingsley adds, “Oh great! More loons to take up my precious time.”

Tony and Josh share a laugh over this. “Take care, Josh.” And with that, Tony enters sickbay in search of their chief medical heckler.

The positivity he got a taste of vanishes without a trace once he has stepped through the doorway. A chill races up and down Tony’s spine as he is confronted by the collection of S’Prenn cadavers and body parts on exhibit all throughout sickbay. Each of the four biobeds on the right-hand side, which are usually reserved for convalescing humanoids, support multiple transparent containers showcasing arachnid remains in varying degrees of decomposition.

As Tony approaches the surgical biobed at the far end of the room, he notices the half-melted S’Prenn on it, its sternum cut open, revealing a grey mass of equally melted innards. He leans in closer to see if he can identify any separate organs in the goop. Out of nowhere, a hand grasps him by the shoulder and yanks him backward. He staggers and lets out a mighty yelp, which is cut short by the sight of Doctor Kingsley grinning widely.

As if nothing happened, the doctor upgrades his shoulder-grabbing to putting an arm around Tony in collegial fashion as he begins waxing lyrical about the wonders of S’Prenn anatomy. It takes a while before Tony’s flush of adrenaline subsides and allows him to listen to the overzealous physician.

“—incision in the cephalothorax revealed a brain so large and complex it has engulfed the stomach, and that’s not just because this fellow’s organs have melted and fused.” As he’s talking, he pokes and prods the carcass with a gory delight that makes Tony squeamish. “We’re barely scratching the surface as to the intricacies of their brains, but we’ve discovered that proper stimulation by compatible forms of energy causes their neuropeptide levels to go off the charts. Here’s the kicker: When electrically charged, their insides become magnetic as all hell.” He finally lets Tony go, if only to spread his arms in a gesture as abundant as his smile. “I’ve no idea why, but here’s hoping it has to do with the proposed quantum mechanical nature of their brains.”

Tony steps back and shakes out his hands to stop them from tingling. “That’s—“

“This corpse right here could revolutionize our understanding of exobiology… or at the very least make one heck of a novelty fridge magnet.”

“Uh, what are—” Tony is interrupted by the doctor grabbing him by the collar and dragging him over to another biobed.

Kingsley taps the glass of a random transparent container, as if to provoke the abominations within. “I’d bet anyone a month’s worth of holodeck privileges these suckers aren’t from our galaxy.”

Tony frees himself from the doctor’s grasp and straightens his jacket. “Doctor, these ‘suckers’ were sentient beings who became victims of a horrible bioweapon. A little more respect should be in order.”

Kingsley keeps tapping the glass. “What’s done is done.” He maintains his upbeat tone, though there is a bittersweet edge to it. “Dwelling on tragedy won’t bring them back. In death, they are of immense value.” He stops tapping the transparent casing and presses his hand against it. “In death, they can provide us the means to avenge them.”

Tony sighs ruefully. “That we agree on. Any progress in that department?”

“Nothing viable,” Kingsley says. “Not yet,” he hastens to add. He heads over to his office and signals Tony to follow. Once there, the doctor slumps into his chair and waves both hands at the towers of PADDs that cover the entire desk and are precariously close to teetering over. “I won’t be getting any sleep anytime soon, that’s for sure.”

Despite the subliminal invitation in the form of an empty chair, Tony refrains from taking a seat, mostly because the stacks of PADDs would obstruct his view of his conversation partner.

“Not that I’m against burning the midnight oil, mind you,” Kingsley says, leaning over to the replicator embedded in the nearest bulkhead. “Coffee, black as my heart.” Impervious to the doctor’s wry humor, the replicator whirls a cup of coffee into existence. “I grew up on Faros 5. Ever heard of it? A moon on which it is always night, lit solely by countless stars, grouped together in constellations that change color like diamonds in the sun. Something to do with the atmosphere. Great for working at night, terrible for working on your tan. Made me a nyctophile for life.”

Quiet seconds float by, a rarity when interacting with the good doctor.

A mischievous twinkle appears in Kingsley’s eyes. “So that’s _my_ excuse for being up and about at three in the morning. What’s yours?”

This catches Tony off-guard. “I, uh, came by to check in on Ensign Donahue.”

The doctor takes a sip of coffee. “Not much of an answer. Visiting hours aren’t limited to the middle of the night. Trouble sleeping?”

Tony hesitates. If there’s one person who can help him combat his recent bout of flashbacks and insomnia, it’s the doctor, but he can’t yet bring himself to discuss these subjects, especially the resurfaced memories regarding the Borg. They’re so unwelcome, he fears speaking of them will grant them undeserved validity.

“You should be in bed,” Kingsley says. “I believe your next shift starts in a few hours.” He finishes the rest of his beverage in one gulp and gets up to escort the young man out of sickbay. “These past weeks have placed a tremendous physical and mental strain on you.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tony admits as he lets the chief medical officer guide him to the exit.

“Get some rest, Tony, hypocritical as it may sound coming from this over-caffeinated night owl.”

“Will do, sir.” With that, the lieutenant enters the corridor and begins his stroll to the nearest turbolift. Panic attacks be damned, he needs his sleep. His role on this ship is too important—or so he’d like to believe—to hand over his life’s reins to anxiety.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 13, 2386 – Stardate 63527.6**

The viewscreen’s three-dimensional representation of the S’Prenn wreckage and its circling flock of shuttles and work bees forms an image so hyper-realistic it makes the actual view from Captain Stephan Rinckes’ quarters pale in comparison. Rinckes keeps a close eye on the proceedings from his captain’s chair. They are in the process of wrapping up activities, despite the _Achilles_ having no clear next destination.

Commander Erin Crow, seated to his right, breaks his trance. “Kingsley’s reports are promising, Captain. He’s unearthing more data on S’Prenn physiology with each passing hour.”

“Very good. What’s Commander Terrell’s latest report?” Jon Terrell has scarcely left the wreckage since he set foot on it days ago. Rinckes can’t help but admire his bravery, in light of the chief engineer’s blossoming arachnophobia.

“Optimistic,” Crow replies. “Though most S’Prenn technology is incompatible with ours, his analyses have been insightful.”

Rinckes’ gaze drifts over to the security station behind his first officer, inadvertently permitting the security chief, Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, to chime in with a barely contained smirk. “I bet the first thing Terrell does upon his return is lock himself in the holodeck and surround himself with fluffy bunnies, puppies, and kittens.”

Most members of the bridge crew laugh, including Lieutenant Tony Blue, who adds, “I can think of a few people who’d be happy to join him there.” Another peal of laughter. Great, an extra class clown on his bridge. Given how the young lieutenant showed up five minutes late for his shift today, for which he was properly admonished, the captain had expected him to keep a lower profile.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Crow says, channeling Rinckes’ impatience.

Of course, instead of abiding by her attempt to restore order, Tony zeroes in on her. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the look on Terrell’s face when he saw Ensign Donahue clinging to the ceiling.”

Despite her best efforts to stay composed, a subtle smile appears as she says, “I haven’t.”

Before anyone can react to this, Lieutenant Surtak speaks up in his usual dry monotone, either oblivious to or annoyed by the incessant banter. “Work bees Alpha through Gamma have docked with our ship.”

This non-sequitur silences the bridge until Gibbs deadpans, “I’ll have holodecks 1 and 2 prepped for their arrival.”

Once again, the majority of the bridge crew cannot keep from laughing. There’s a time and place for lightheartedness, and Lord knows they’ve all deserved their shot at levity, but bridge duty is arguably the most important task on the ship. Rinckes is about to issue a stern reminder, when Lieutenant Kels does it for him with superior effectiveness.

“We’ve got company,” the Andorian woman says gravely. “ _Explorer_ -class Altonoid ship, cloaked and on a direct intercept course.”

To his credit, Tony immediately switches from wannabe comedian to astute chief tactical officer. “Confirmed. One _Explorer_ -class vessel, weapons armed. They’ll be within weapons range in four minutes.”

This gets the captain’s blood pumping, all right. The prospect of taking this battered vessel into armed conflict yet again becomes more horrifying with each ill-advised yet unavoidable skirmish, but he cannot deny the appeal of distraction from his worries, violent as it may be. There’s a faint echo of guilt in the recesses of his mind for this, which he easily suppresses. “Red alert! All hands to battle stations.” The bridge lighting dims, red alert panels blink into action, and the red alert claxon blares its intermittent warning. “Lieutenant Surtak, send word to all work bees, shuttles, and personnel. Have them return to us at once. Lieutenant Blue, keep our shields down until everyone is accounted for. Warn me fifteen seconds before the Altonoids enter range.”

While the crew prepares for battle, Rinckes reflects on the engineering staff’s recent improvements to the sensor arrays, enabling them to detect cloaked Altonoid vessels much sooner—a modification arisen from their tragic encounter at Nedron Eight. Granted, a four-minute warning is far from sufficient, but it is a significant step in the ongoing high-stakes arms race.

“I am coordinating with our transporter chiefs to beam all personnel off the wreckage,” Surtak says. Shown on the viewscreen, several shuttlecraft and work bees return to the _Achilles_ like chicks fleeing to mother hen. “I will request them to prioritize beaming shuttlecraft directly to cargo or shuttle bays. Even then, by my estimation we will be short twenty-eight officers, divided over one work bee and seven shuttlecraft, once the Altonoid vessel enters range. That is taking into account their leaving behind non-essential equipment and space vehicles.”

“Noted,” Rinckes says. Without having to look sideways, he’s aware of Tony staring at him, ready to judge his every decision. _Are you willing to stay and fight for twenty-eight people as opposed to a mere two?_ he must be about to say. Thank heavens Tony is no longer his first officer. However, the captain realizes the same question is on everyone’s lips, given the abrupt silence that befell the bridge the instant he issued his single-word reply.

The tireless red alert claxon along with beeps of confirmation from their workstations prevent the bridge from going too quiet. On screen, the occasional work bee or shuttle dissipates in a bright-blue dance of transporting molecules. Others disappear from view as they begin final approach to one of the _Achilles_ ’ aft hangar decks.

Perhaps it was a matter of time before the Altonoids discovered their location. After all, the S’Prenn wreckage sticks out like a sore thumb in this region of space. The notion of ever finding a safe haven was discarded as soon as the _Achilles_ stumbled upon the heavily guarded border and had no choice but to double back.

“Captain,” Tony says in that cautious, moralizing tone of his. It was inevitable. The young man would never let an opportunity slip by to plead from the comfort of his high horse.

“We stay and fight,” Rinckes says. “Once the _Explorer_ ’s in range, we raise shields and order the remaining shuttles to withdraw. Once we’ve defeated or disabled the enemy, we continue packing up shop.” There, he said it. “We can take on an _Explorer_.”

“I agree,” Tony says. “That’s not… I’m reading multiple power signatures on the Altonoid vessel, consistent with those of _Foora_ -class fighters.”

“How many power signatures?” Rinckes asks, having mastered the art of keeping a level voice while asking questions that merit anything but calmness.

“Ten and rising, sir. They must be powering up. Yes, they’re arming weapons too.”

They can take on an _Explorer_ , sure, but not one filled to the brim with fighters. It would be a bloodbath. While he calculates all probable outcomes of different strategies for handling this scenario, one simple truth dawns on him: they cannot win this.

It seems Crow has done some calculating of her own, and her conclusion stuns her to such a degree that it ends up sounding like a question. “When Lieutenant Blue issues his fifteen-second warning, we must leave at high warp.” This causes murmuring among the bridge crew, and anger gets the better of her. “What other choice do we have? Those shuttles are sitting ducks. The fighters will pick them off one by one while we’re busy dealing with the _Explorer_. And with our shields up we can’t beam anything or anyone aboard.”

“Can’t we open an EM window in our shields,” Baxter asks, “like we did before?”

Crow doesn’t answer that question, so Kels kindly explains, “Beaming five people through an EM window was already bordering on unfeasible, and they were in a confined, fixed space surrounded by pattern enhancers.”

No-one offers a counterargument. Surtak is yet again the one to speak up, regardless of the prevailing mood, although there is nothing humorous about it this time. “We have one minute and thirty seconds to consider our options.”

“Tactical analysis,” the captain says, adhering to procedure.

Tony grabs the sides of his tactical station and lets out a pained sigh. “We don’t stand a prayer.” Not quite the professional reaction Rinckes wanted to hear, but nobody here will fault the lieutenant for his honesty. “We’re dealing with a total of sixteen _Foora_ -class fighters in addition to the _Explorer_ -class starship.” He bites his bottom lip and hangs his head. “The odds are impossible.”

“I concur,” Rinckes says. “Lieutenant Baxter, lay in an escape course, maximum warp. The millisecond the Altonoids enter weapons range… punch it.”

A noticeable beat of hesitation precedes a sullen “aye, sir” from the helmsman.

“Once we hit high warp, engage cloak,” Rinckes continues. Besides its tactical advantages, cloaking the ship might hide a portion of his shame for signing twenty-eight unlucky crewmembers’ death warrants. Though he does his damnedest to keep his voice emotionless—and succeeds as always—his next words are a supplication straight from the heart. “I am open to suggestions.”

None seem forthcoming and not for lack of trying. Even as he awaits a response, he devises and rejects several plans in the back of his mind, any idea, no matter how farfetched in his refusal to bow to fate’s callous decrees. If he is willing to favor life over materiel, he’ll open a doorway to new alternatives. Before he can see one clearly, however, his chief tactical officer interrupts him.

“We cloak the ship right before the enemy enters range.”

Crow huffs at Tony’s suggestion—an act of frustration, not indignation. “How are our shuttles supposed to dock with a cloaked ship? Barring that, our cloak is useless at such close range. I need not remind you of our last battle at Nedron—”

“That’s right,” Gibbs says loud enough to shut her up. Standing right behind her at his security station lends credence to his intimidating aspect as well. “You need not remind him.” He breathes in sharply and nods to Tony. “Under cloak our shields remain offline. Shuttles won’t have to dock. We’ll keep beaming them aboard. As for its close-range detectability—”

“I might have a trick up my sleeve,” Lt. Commander Jon Terrell says, fresh from the S’Prenn wreckage, surprising everyone as he steps out of the turbolift. Grime covers him and the toolkit he carries. “A pet project I’ve been laboring on since the last run-in with our bristly haired friends.”

Rinckes pivots his captain’s chair to face Chief Engineer Terrell, who rushes over to his station. “Terrell, we have an inbound _Explorer_ carrying sixteen fighters and we’re not all accounted for. We—”

“This is our fifteen-second warning,” Tony says solemnly.

Rinckes wags a finger at Baxter. “Belay my previous order. Hold position.” He refocuses on the chief engineer. If he were within arm’s reach, he’d grab him by the collar and rattle him about. “What can you give me, Commander?”

“Using the deflector to bend our energy output away from us in a controlled manner, including thrusters, transporter activity, and the like, giving them false readings on our whereabouts.”

“Chance of success?”

Terrell breaks eye contact, a bad omen. “The simulations were promising.”

“Altonoids have entered range!” Tony says. “Decloaked, prepped for combat.”

Rinckes’ blood runs cold and he swivels back toward the viewscreen. “Abort transport. Raise shields. Baxter, position us between the enemy and the shuttles. Align dorsal torpedo launchers. Blue, fire at will!”

A squadron of fighters escorting a beam-shaped _Explorer_ behemoth disperses and opens fire, pelting the _Achilles_ ’ shields with emerald destruction. Due to the realistic nature of the viewscreen, it seems as if miniatures of enemy vessels have penetrated the bridge’s defenses in person to rain fire and death onto the bridge officers.

“Can we cloak?” Rinckes shouts at Terrell as the _Achilles_ shudders and shakes her tired hull. She retaliates in the form of short bursts of scarlet phaser fire that dissolve in the fighters’ shields.

“Soon, Captain!” Terrell says, working the controls like a concert pianist gone mad.

The lights flicker and an overhead EPS conduit severs with a violent hiss, prompting Rinckes to share a worried look with his first officer. If the squadron circumvents the _Achilles_ , the shuttles will be defenseless; without cloaking the ship, lowering shields to recommence evacuation is out of the question.

Dozens of quantum microtorpedoes, each one irreplaceable, brighten the bridge as they begin their final voyage from the launch bays on the spine of the ship. Most of these torpedoes strike their highly maneuverable targets, inflicting damage and instigating a reaction in the squadron akin to flaming arrows shot at a pack of wolves. However, like their lupine equivalents, hunger for blood impels them to reassume formation as soon as the volley is over. Worse yet, the _Explorer_ ’s captain must have taken offense, because the large enemy warship exacts revenge with a full spread of cubion torpedoes.

“Boost power to dorsal shields!” Crow shouts.

Rinckes braces himself. “Evasive maneuvers. Make sure we don’t expose the shuttles. Blue, another volley of microtorpedoes, now!”

Despite Baxter’s top-notch efforts, at least three cubions slam into the _Achilles_ ’ top shields to combine with several fighters’ incessant phaser fire. The starship’s massive size notwithstanding, the _Achilles_ rocks about like a trawler struggling to stay afloat in a hurricane. At least the shields held.

“Deflector’s almost ready,” Terrell says.

As a swarm of microtorpedoes pummels and distracts the enemy fleet once more, Rinckes rises from his seat and puts into action a plan his subconscious has been concocting in the background. “Surtak, contact the shuttles and work bee on a secure emergency channel. Order them to beam their total crew complements to the two largest shuttles and signal us once they’re done.”

“As you wish, Captain,” Surtak says.

Another spread of cubions quakes the bridge, which would’ve knocked the captain off his feet had he not planted them on the floor with his usual fortitude. “Have them dash for the S’Prenn vessel so it can shield them.” Rinckes has no idea how long the partially stripped wreckage is able to endure enemy fire, but it’s better than having those shuttles out in the open. “Baxter, line up our bow with the squadron. Blue, fire phaser cannons and quantum torpedoes at your discretion. Boost power to forward shields.”

“Aye, sir,” Tony says. “We could set the empty shuttles on autopilot and have them fight alongside us.”

“You heard him, Surtak. Make it happen,” Rinckes says as the onslaught of phaser fire and cubions begin to pellet the bow of the ship instead of its dorsal section, as if the _Achilles_ is facing a biblical hailstorm head-on.

“Deflector charged and ready,” Terrell says, wiping the sweat from his smudged brow.

“Excellent. Let’s create an opportunity to use it. Ahead full! Target all fighters and blast them to hell!”

Bright pulses of raw energy conspire with fusillades of quantum torpedoes to wreak havoc upon the enemy fighters. This ship excels at full frontal assaults, devastating those subjected to its unbridled fury. Sure, even during an alpha strike like this, the ship cannot belie her wear and tear; sometimes a phaser pulse fizzles in a cannon misfire, and the front-facing starboard torpedo bay sets off a distinctive wobble felt throughout the bridge each fifth launch, but who cares in the midst of an invigorating battle?

Rinckes’ heightened senses alter the laws of physics, slow the battle to a crawl, demote the rumbling and shuddering of undergoing continuous bombardment to the breaking of tidal waves. He deserves each and every explosion chipping away at his shields, lambasting his hull, ripping his flesh, shattering his bones—he deserves all of it. The ferocity of battle tranquilizes his pain and soothes his inner turmoil. He is meant to suffer. It grants him immortality. Rooted firmly in the center of his bridge, he is unstoppable.

Two fighters cannot perform evasive maneuvers fast enough; their shields succumb to the relentless barrage and cobalt-blue quantum torpedoes tear them to shreds. A third fighter loses its left wing and careens out of control, resembling a struck WWII plane with an incongruous starry backdrop.

One fighter threatens to escape the _Achilles_ ’ direct line of fire. Rinckes is not in a merciful mood. “Top left!” In an impressive display of tactical prowess, Tony adds an old-fashioned phaser array into the mix to wear out its shielding, complemented by an on-the-fly adjustment of the port quantum torpedo launcher and phaser cannon, while the starboard weapons provide covering fire, keeping the rest of the squadron in check. Bright-orange phaser pulses slice through the wayward fighter’s weakened hull and reduce it to blackened jetsam, lifeless as the surrounding vacuum.

Three vacant shuttles have already joined the attack. Though their comparatively puny phaser arrays and torpedoes inflict little damage, they inflict damage nonetheless and provide a much-needed diversion. It is not effective enough to restrain the enemy’s wrath, however; the thunderous clattering of the _Achilles_ ’ structure is reaching worrisome levels—she cannot suffer this abuse indefinitely.

“Shuttlecraft _Carson_ and _Pauling_ report all twenty-eight crewmembers aboard,” Surtak says. “They have sought refuge behind the S’Prenn vessel.”

A rupturing plasma conduit showers Terrell in sparks as he clings to his engineering station. “Forward shields are down! Should we cloak, sir?”

“Negative!” Rinckes bellows. Dropping shields and powering down weapons mid-battle demands meticulous timing. “Baxter, pull up! One hundred eighty degrees! Then—” Like an ocean liner striking a reef, the ship suddenly lists to the left. The lighting and workstations go dark, only to come back online an agonizing three seconds later, flickering in anger. “Pull up! Evasive pattern Epsilon!”

Irregular outlines of developing flames reflect off the bulkheads, their source unseen and irrelevant to the chief helmsman. “Maneuvering thrusters and impulse engines damaged, switching to secondary systems.” The ship rises in shocks and shudders as Baxter wrestles its faltering engines.

“Major hull breaches reported on decks four through twelve,” Surtak says. “Casualty reports are flooding in, sir.”

“Alert sickbay,” Rinckes says, suppressing the urge to swear. On the viewscreen, veiled by jumbled streams of static, the _Explorer_ hangs in space, immovable, unleashing its full complement of cubions in patient doses, providing indispensable support for the remaining fighters, ensuring the _Achilles_ ’ ventral shields will fail soon. “Baxter, we need your wildest evasive maneuvers, as erratic as possible.” He turns to his chief engineer and places their lives in his capable hands. “Terrell, cloak the ship.”

No “aye, sir,” no nod, no acknowledgment other than a clenching of the jaw as Terrell engages cloak. Consequently, the downpour of enemy fire reduces to sporadic thunderclaps. The captain doesn’t require any verbal confirmation of the shields lowering, because even Baxter’s piloting métier cannot prevent stray phaser fire and torpedoes from impacting the _Achilles_ ’ naked hull, sending unsettling tremors up and down her skeleton. Worse yet, these chance hits betray her position, further complicating Baxter’s job. Rinckes must concede, however, that without Terrell’s adjustments, the _Achilles_ and her crew would have been dust in an expanding debris field by now.

Without the extra boost of fear, Surtak’s casualty and hull breach reports can hardly compete with the cacophony of warfare. Rinckes doesn’t have that handicap. “Beam aboard the shuttles!”

Sparks rain from the ceiling and blast through the flickering viewscreen, leaving crimson burn marks on Baxter and Surtak’s skin. Neither of them react to these pinpricks, fully engrossed as they are in their duties. “ _Pauling_ is aboard, shuttle bay three,” Surtak says. “Preparing to beam aboard _Ca_ —”

A massive explosion, amidships, darkens the bridge and launches its crew into the air. Rinckes lands on the carpet face-first, sending a tooth through his lip, a pain immediately dulled by adrenaline. Regardless of where the bridge crew ended up or in what shape, they return to their stations—by clambering and crawling if necessary—while the emergency lights come on again, as resilient as the people they illuminate.

Terrell has somehow held on to his workstation and rattles off a series of damage reports the captain can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. Rinckes spits out a glob of blood and saliva and staggers to his feet. “It doesn’t matter, Commander. Is the cloak still up?”

“It is, sir. But did you hear me? Shuttle and cargo bay transporters are offline.”

Rinckes needs but a moment to regain clarity of thought. “Baxter, fly us to the _Carson_. Surtak, ready tractor beam.”

Crow subdues a coughing fit courtesy of the smoke-filled bridge and says, “Sir, tractoring the _Carson_ will reveal our position.”

Rinckes ignores her doubts the way he ignores the occasional weapon strike. “Status of warp engines?”

“Shaken but functional,” Baxter replies. “Maximum warp available.”

“Tactical report.”

Lit by his wavering tactical station, Tony bares his teeth. Whether that is caused by sheer determination or the painful gash running from his forehead to his right cheek is impossible to gauge. “ _Explorer_ is in tiptop condition. Twelve fighters left, six of which heavily damaged.” The lieutenant straightens his jacket with an angry tug. “I recommend we set the empty shuttles’ warp cores to overload and crash them into the fighters once we’re outside the potential blast radius.”

The captain has never agreed more with the ardent young man. If the last remaining work bee had a warp core he’d send it into the fray as well. “Surtak, execute his plan.”

On screen, four fighters and the S’Prenn wreckage they circle grow in size as the _Achilles_ swoops in. Intermittent enemy fire striking the _Achilles_ ’ aft section serves as a firm reminder that the lone Federation flagship cannot afford to overstay its welcome, even while cloaked. Three shuttles—one of them the _Carson_ —buzz around the S’Prenn vessel, locked in their hopeless battle with the fighters. The fighter pilots attempt to zero in on the _Carson_ and forego battling the empty shuttles, whose autopilots manage to get a few good shots in with their limited weaponry. The _Carson_ , a type 11 shuttle filled to the brim with people, is already venting warp plasma and floundering like a bird with a clipped wing.

“Engage tractor beam. Ahead full impulse!” Rinckes says. A blue graviton beam ensnares the besieged shuttle and snatches it away from the ongoing battle at the _Achilles_ ’ current velocity. It must be quite a scene for the fighter pilots, having a disembodied tractor beam appear from nowhere and run off with their quarry. “Surtak, order the _Carson_ to lower shields and have our transporter rooms beam the twenty-eight aboard. Then release tractor beam and send it back into battle with an overloading warp core.” He clears his throat, which feels parched in spite of having to swallow blood every so often. “If we can’t have it, we might as well blow it up in their faces.” This sentiment earns him an appreciative nod from Tony.

The quartet of fighters take potshots at the beam’s origin, further buckling the _Achilles_ ’ ablative armor as it carries the shuttle like a quarterback outrunning his opponents. Other fighters have caught up with them and join in on the harassment. One of them even makes a direct run for the _Carson_ , but Baxter’s clever maneuvering keeps it out of reach.

Surtak’s console sparks like an arc welder gone awry, yet the Vulcan remains unperturbed. “Shuttle occupants are safely aboard. I am uploading combat instructions to its computer and releasing tractor beam.”

As soon as the tractor beam disappears, the invisible _Achilles_ rolls to starboard, confusing the fighters, who focus their ire on her presumed trajectory and miss each shot as a result. The _Carson_ ’s engines glow as they power up, plasma leaks be damned, and the empty shuttle turns to confront its assailants in a final act of defiance.

Rinckes’ pulse is throbbing in his temples. “Get us out of here, maximum warp, erratic flight path.” He has barely finished his sentence before Baxter pushes the sputtering engines to the limit and propels the _Achilles_ to unimaginable speeds. “Aft viewer on.”

On screen, the tiny _Carson_ storms the battlefield, phasers blazing—a lone barbarian against a Roman army, the last avenger of this S’Prenn massacre. Ahead of it, five shuttles explode in a shockwave of conflicting matter/anti-matter, detonating near the _Explorer_ and its accomplices, destroying three fighters and disabling two more. After a moment of perplexity, the remaining seven fighters target the _Carson_ and forego pursuing the _Achilles_ , which is making subtle course changes with significant results while travelling at roughly 8,000 times the speed of light. The last visual before the garbled viewscreen can no longer provide an accurate representation of the battle they abandoned is the bright flare of a warp core breach.

“No vessels on intercept course,” Kels says on an otherwise eerily silent bridge, save for the hissing of fire extinguishers and that ubiquitous red alert claxon. “We’ve escaped,” she adds with more than a touch of incredulity.

Rinckes expresses his relief with but a quiet exhale. “Cancel red alert.” At long last, the red alert panels and claxon cease their warnings. With the cloak engaged, the regular lighting is left switched off, leaving the bridge shrouded in darkness. As the violent encounter’s coda seeps into his memory like one of his nightmares, pain fills the void. Yet, to his surprise, the knowledge of having saved his men and women in a daring move abates his sorrows for an instant. But at what cost? How wounded is the _Achilles_ and how high are the casualties in exchange for those twenty-eight lives?

Having no further need to stand in the center of his bridge, Rinckes turns around to seek the comfort of his captain’s chair and is shocked to discover that a ceiling joist, a foot thick and made from solid metal, has pierced it. Rinckes cannot keep his eyes off the macabre sight, cannot escape its implications.

The Grim Reaper had swung his scythe and missed.


	4. Chapter III

**USS _Achilles_ , lightyears from the S’Prenn wreckage – July 15, 2386 – Stardate 63534.8**

To save twenty-eight, eighteen crewmembers died the day before yesterday, nearly five percent of the total crew complement. Four asphyxiated when emergency force fields couldn’t immediately seal a deck-wide hull breach, six burned to death while trapped under debris, and the partial collapse of deck 12 claimed eight lives.

Lieutenant Tony Blue rummages through the XO’s office to pack up his belongings and goes over these morbid details in his mind. Every survivor on this ship knows them by heart, doubly so for the twenty-eight evacuees who owe their lives to their fallen colleagues. Similar to how Tony is collecting his possessions to place them in a cargo container, thereby saying his belated goodbyes to his life as a first officer, crew quarters of the deceased are being emptied, their possessions stored or recycled, depending on the items’ practical or intrinsic value. Soon, it will be as if those brave men and women never existed, as if they never embarked on this Quixotic mission, the same way people mention Emily less with each passing day.

He touches the healed tissue on his face. In days of old, the deep gash running from forehead to cheek would’ve left an impressive scar, but the medical staff did an exemplary job despite the avalanche of patients they have treated during the past forty-eight hours. As opposed to the death tally, statistics regarding the wounded often go ignored; the entire crew sustained injuries in this battle.

There’s no denying it, the XO’s office is a mess, its prominent desk upturned, its bulkheads and carpet stained with burn marks, the adjacent wall terminal blackened and malfunctioning.

Against a bent table leg lies a small, green object. “Oh, hello there,” Tony says. “Long time no see, pal.” It’s a plush frog, a gift from Emily celebrating his one-year anniversary as this ship’s first officer. She had come into his office while he was toiling away at whatever kept him busy back then and surprised him with this replicated toy.

After making sure nobody could possibly be watching, Tony picks up the frog, gives the fluffy amphibian a big hug, and instantly remembers why he had hidden it out of sight. This particular frog comes equipped with motorized arms and a sound synthesizer chip, and it is programmed to do two things when hugged: clench its tiny arms around its new friend in a firm grip one step below a chokehold and proclaim its eternal devotion in a high-pitched voice. “I love you, I love you, I love you! You’re the best!” And just like it did three years ago, it scares the bejesus out of him.

So there Tony stands amid the ruins of his career and family life represented by overthrown furniture and a few scattered personal effects, comforted by an over-affectionate and downright creepy relic of the past. The sheer absurdity of the situation makes him chuckle at first, then laugh out loud to such an extent that he sinks to the floor, caught in the grasp of that silly toy frog, which still carries traces of his wife’s scent. Or is it just his imagination, a desperate ploy to hold on to her memory? He honestly has no idea.

While he sits there in the rubble, holding on to the plush frog for dear life, running his fingers through its soft fabric, he forfeits his constant struggle to stay composed and permits himself to shed a handful of tears. He is grateful for having known Emily, for having been part of her life, grateful for her comforting smile, her unwavering support, her offbeat sense of humor, her continuous attempts to make him a better person, and yes, her ridiculous surprise gifts.

The door chimes and Tony makes no effort to answer it; he cannot free himself from his sad epiphany, wants to relish the moment, despite it being as transient as any other.

The door chimes again and again, eventually breaking him from his self-cast spell. With considerable reluctance, Tony releases himself from the frog and nostalgia’s clutches and sets both aside. He pushes himself off the ground, dries tears with his sleeve, and stumbles for the door. Rubble fragments crunch beneath his soles. He halts shy of the door and clears any lingering emotion from his voice with a hearty cough. “Who is it?”

“ _The executive officer of this starship_ , _who doesn’t appreciate being locked out of her own office._ ”

With the press of a button, Tony opens the entrance and seals his fate.

Commander Erin Crow, scoring a disturbing five out of five scowling stars, brushes past her precursor and homes in on his cargo container. “Haven’t you finished packing yet? How long have you been in here?” She swivels to face the lieutenant, the intensity in her eyes matching the output of a Type XII phaser array. “Your departure is long overdue. Don’t stretch it out further by idling about.”

Reeling from the unannounced switch from grappling with the complexities of grief to having a hotheaded superior waltz in, Tony slips his hands into his pockets and watches as Crow angrily shoves whatever item she can find into the cargo container. She doesn’t seem to have noticed he has been crying; the damaged lighting fixtures might’ve helped in this regard, but let’s not rule out the power of indifference.

It takes her nearly breaking the frame of a family holopicture in half for Tony to intervene. “Just leave that up to me, please.” He walks over and takes the picture from her.

Crow lashes out with a West Coast accent she usually keeps under wraps. “I’m on a tight schedule, Lieutenant, and I need this office asap.”

“Uh, why? This place is a mess.”

“Because it is mine. A first officer should have her own office. My previous office is waiting for you”—she looks around and lets out a frustrated sigh—“in much better shape than this.”

“Then maybe you should return to it.”

Big mistake. She steps in so close he feels the heat of her breath. “It’s bad enough you hogged this position for so many years, and I strongly disagree with the captain’s decision to let you keep your quarters even though I have every right to—” She recoils slightly and narrows her eyes. “Wait, have you been crying?”

Tony refrains from answering.

“You have, haven’t you?” She groans. “Is that what kept you from sticking to my schedule? Geesh, we’re all a little sad sometimes, Lieutenant, and for good reason, but you cannot let personal issues interfere with your duties. You’re a senior officer, for crying out loud!”

“Crying out loud… Really?” Tony mutters.

Her unfortunate choice of words eludes her. “Why don’t you soldier on like the rest of us? Everyone considers you this symbol for loss, sacrifice, heroism. The dauntless Tony Q, trading his godlike powers and immortality for sharing his glorious presence and wisdom with us poor mortals.” Her forehead nearly touches his nose as she continues her reproach. “I am genuinely sorry for you losses, I really am, but you don’t have the market cornered on sacrifice and grief, Lieutenant. We all suffer, and none of us give in to our pain.”

“Which is laudable,” Tony replies in the brief window of opportunity his conversation partner grants him.

“At least you know what happened to your family: when they died, how they died, where they died.”

Though each mention of “they died” hurts like being zapped by a plasma conduit, he lets her vent nonetheless.

“Last I heard of my parents and brothers, they were together in Santa Monica, going about their lives. That was three days before the Altonoids ravaged the surface.” For the first time during this reprimand, she averts her gaze. “I read reports of some people making it out of LA. They could’ve survived, but… let’s be realistic.”

Tony offers her a thoughtful expression. “There’s a chance.”

“How the hell should I know?” She gestures at the family picture in his hands. “Tough as it may be, you get to have closure. You can be certain Emily is never coming back.”

Ouch. He prefers the plasma conduit over this. This conversation has run its course, but the new commander is on a roll.

“I haven’t seen my Arthur in over half a decade. One minute he’s en route with six colleagues to a training colony, the next his shuttle has vanished without a trace. No debris field anywhere near its filed flight path, no signs of spatial anomalies, no nothing. Seven officers gone up in smoke like a cheap magic trick. And believe me, Lieutenant, we searched and searched, for weeks, months even.

“Captain Harriman was not one to give up, and he led our search efforts with undeniable stalwartness, but even he had to call it quits eventually and have us move on with our missions. Because that is what we do.” She pokes his chest with an outstretched index finger. “We suck it up and perform our duties.”

Just as Tony believes—and hopes—the lecture is over, Crow snatches the family portrait from his grip and holds it up, shaking it in anger. “You’re one of the lucky ones. You can stare them in the eyes and find comfort in the finality of it all.” She tosses him the picture. “So quit your moping and get over yourself.”

For a good ten seconds, uneasy silence pervades the room as Crow treats him to a proper death glare. Tony absentmindedly fidgets with the frame’s edges and tries to ignore the stomachache this tirade has summoned. When he speaks up, his voice is calm. “I understand why you are the way you are.”

She crosses her arms and raises her brow.

“If you let grief fester, it becomes something vile: bitterness, Commander. And it will take hold of you, control you like a S’Prenn biting into your brainstem to dictate your every move. You’ll be inseparable, forever at its mercy. You hope distributing your anger to others will dilute the pain. But it never does.”

Her mouth forms a thin line, a cherry-red protest to his viewpoint.

“Tell me,” Tony says, bracing himself for her upcoming reaction. “How do I avoid becoming like you?”

Instead of retaliating with a snarky comeback, she lowers her gaze to the frayed carpet and says, “I wish I knew.” Tony sees in her the same tiredness he saw back in the S’Prenn wreckage’s computer room. She buries her face in her palms for an instant and takes a deep breath. “Listen, it’s been a hectic few days with the ship and its crew being a shambles, and it’s on me to bring order to chaos. I need you to clear out at your earliest convenience, okay?”

“I’ll get right back to it.” He crouches next to the container and adds the family picture to its contents.

“I admit I may have been a bit harsh toward you. I just… I am a little stressed out.”

“Don’t sweat it. I have something here that might soothe your nerves.”

“Oh, that would be very welcome. Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” Tony says as he reaches for the plush frog.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 16, 2386 – Stardate 63537.6**

“Aren’t you a beauty?” Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell says to the incomplete fruit of his labor: a two-foot-high, nine-foot-long wire model of a _Galaxy_ -class Federation starship, constructed from leftover relays, cables, and conduits—stuff that usually gets recycled—given new life by the chief engineer’s favorite creative outlet.

He uses his engineering jumpsuit’s pant legs to wipe the grease from his fingers and clicks a loose phaser charge indicator into the wires representing the main impulse engine. Artworks lie strewn about in his quarters, mostly smaller depictions of familiar spacefaring vessels, some of which displayed in broken vitrines, others placed haphazardly on furniture or the floor, in sight but forgotten, overshadowed by Terrell’s pièce de résistance, his magnum opus in wireframe form: the not-so-mini miniature of the USS _Enterprise_ -D.

It feels right to pay tribute to his early days. He was twenty-two, a naïve ensign, when he accepted his first commission as Starfleet engineer, unaware of the adventures and misadventures he would have on that illustrious flagship and her successor, the _Enterprise_ -E.

However, choosing to sculpt a model starship may not have been his best choice of pastime. With each alteration, each addition of a junked piece of hardware, he reminds himself of the _Achilles_ ’ wounded state. Her main warp and impulse engines need a major overhaul; they cannot rely on secondary systems indefinitely. Her warp core has developed moods and an apparent dislike for its reserve batteries. Her weaponry takes more force and patience to hammer back into alignment after each skirmish, as if to rebel against her tormentors and protest against her dwindling torpedo count. Her hull integrity cannot be pushed above seventy-eight percent, no matter how much effort his teams put into restoring its weak spots. One day, the chief engineer fears, the _Achilles_ will be as fragile as one of his sculptures.

His engineering crew is so busy patching up important systems that the ship’s once pristine interior is but a fading memory. This goes double for his quarters. Everything is functional despite appearances, from the exposed LCARS panels stripped of their interfaces to the barebones replicator doubling as a stand for what a sparrow would look like if nature only had isolinear chips at its disposal.

“Luxury is for the lazy,” he says, accustomed to having nobody around to hear his spontaneous insights. Probably for the best. Although being chief engineer demands excellent people skills, he considers solitude to be life’s sweetest blessing. Voluntary solitude, to be precise, in sharp contrast to the loneliness associated with losing a loved one.

Terrell wanders over to his couch, designed by himself during what he has dubbed his ascetic aesthetic period, and lifts the lightweight construction to grab what it conceals: a wireframe heart, twice the size of a human one, torn in two but held together by near-invisible strings. It was supposed to be a gift for Tony, and he had begun working on it the day after Emily Blue perished. He had completed it in two days flat, if only to cope with how powerless he felt on the Altonoid wreck, unable to quell the then-commander’s despair, and on the bridge, with Tony’s desperate pleas falling on deaf ears.

As Terrell holds up the seemingly broken heart and lets his quarters’ scarce lighting dance on its intricate metal pattern, he ponders how embarrassing it must’ve been had he given this pitiful attempt at handling these multifaceted emotions to the grieving young man. “So sorry for your loss,” he says to thin air. “Lost all you held dear, did ya? Here’s a symbolic piece of junk to brighten your mood!” Terrell chuckles to himself as he picks up the isolinear sparrow from the replicator pad and throws it across the room with a flick of the wrist. It doesn’t quite fly as efficiently as the real thing and it crash-lands on his sofa.

He places the broken heart on the replicator pad, or the Pedestal of the Damned, as he calls it. The procedure goes as follows: once he has gathered the courage (this could take weeks), he’ll initiate the replicator’s Kill Your Darlings protocol, which happens to have the exact same effect as saying “recycle,” namely immediate dematerialization, usually reserved for disposal of dirty dishes and table scraps. Each work of art is meant to be devoured by oblivion; this device simply speeds up the process.

Favoring practicality over sentimentality, Terrell had redirected his creativity to what became the cloaking trick, which ended up saving the away teams, the majority of which consisted of his engineers. The tradeoff, however, came at a steep cost: four of his engineers died on the _Achilles_ during the ensuing battle.

Terrell deigns the broken heart another look. Despite its deceptively fragile appearance, it has withstood the harshest of circumstances, including lying abandoned under a couch during a devastating attack. It has maintained its shape.

That’s got to be worth something.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 16, 2386 – Stardate 63537.8**

Captain Stephan Rinckes stands alone, surrounded by eighteen torpedo casings, ordered in three groups of six, each one draped across with a Federation flag. In them lie the men and women who did not survive his latest command decision. The dead do not assign blame; that’s a privilege exclusive to the living, and the captain does so on their behalf while adopting their stone-cold silence as his own. The vastness of the main cargo bay should serve to mask the tragedy’s extent, but all it does is humble the captain even further as he meanders through the rows and inspects each casket in a futile display of paying respects. Paying respects… for whose sake? Who is watching other than himself?

Part of him wishes he could join their ranks, occupy a nineteenth casing. Not out of envy or some sort of death wish, but to be relieved of the burden stacking up, brick by brick, of people he let down and who paid the ultimate price for it. His actions and inactions have extensive consequences, and he is the one to carry the sum of all responsibilities and their repercussions. Had he chosen differently, he would’ve found himself in the exact same cargo bay on a ship with less damage, sans the bodies and torpedo casings, preparing to eulogize twenty-eight souls who vaporized along with their shuttles.

He steps onto to the platform overlooking the casings and the rows of seats filling the rest of the cargo bay. Soon, he will spout inspirational platitudes Starfleet and naval captains have uttered for generations, honoring those who died similar meaningless deaths. All the while, he will think back to that one particular moment, post-battle, when he turned around and saw his captain’s chair impaled.

If this, if that, it doesn’t matter. He is still here. By pure chance, he evaded bestowing Erin Crow with the cross only he was meant to bear.

* * *

Lieutenant Kels values punctuality, yet she arrives at the well-attended funeral service thirty seconds late. A security officer attempts to guide her to a front-row seat reserved for senior officers, but she politely refuses and searches for a place to sit in the back. She spots one off to the right, smackdab in the middle of the last row. The attendees pay her no attention as she mutters apologies and sidles to the empty seat; they are listening to Commander Erin Crow’s solemn opening words.

To Kels’ relief, from her vantage point, the torpedo casings beneath the elevated platform remain hidden from view. She’s here for the speech, or so she tells herself. The idea that the maimed bodies of eighteen former crewmembers, people she worked with and greeted in the hallways, lie encased in them is unsettling enough.

After a respectful introduction from his first officer, Captain Stephan Rinckes takes center stage. The size of this venue diminishes his imposing stature to a degree, but he appears strapping nonetheless. By nature, Andorians are a militaristic race, and Kels appreciates a commanding officer who has physical presence in abundance.

The captain’s voice reverberates through the cargo bay. “We have been out here for a substantial amount of time. Driven from our homes, cut off from our friends and family, we have come to depend on one another, here, on our starship _Achilles_. We celebrate our victories, we look out for each other, cooperate to accomplish our goals, and yes, when we are harshly reminded of the dangers, as we are today… we band together and honor those who have laid down their lives for us.”

The captain is a fine public speaker, favoring projection and artful pauses over excessive modulation, keeping the audience transfixed while listing the names of those who lie beneath the platform. It’s hardly the opportune moment for it, but Kels can’t help but admire his oratory skills.

“Countless men, women, and children, who are waiting behind the Klingon border, who share our fate of being outcasts, rely on the successful completion of our mission, a mission requiring sacrifice, a sacrifice… we know too well. Let us never forget those whose courage led them to relinquish their safety for the greater good, for a chance to make a difference, a chance to reclaim our worlds.”

Kels finds it jarring to hear her captain stringing together sentences other than the terse pairing of grumbled syllables. Judging by his stern demeanor on the bridge, where efficiency is key, she never would have guessed his still waters ran this deep.

“We live in a universe in which the Federation’s principles of peace and exploration are trodden on. When acts of violence bereave us of our loved ones, it is natural to crave vengeance. But that is not why we’re out here. If we were to exact revenge for the billions we have lost, how would we go about it? No, really, how would we accomplish such a feat? Kill every Altonoid we encounter? Poison their worlds, slaughter their inhabitants, soldier or citizen alike? Become like them?”

One could hear a pin drop.

“No! That is not who we are! That is not what these eighteen fine men and women died for. We are here to drive the Altonoids from our homes, phasers blazing if and only if we have exhausted every other avenue. And as we’ve learned recently, we must liberate the S’Prenn from their appalling mistreatment by the Altonoids, their slavery. We embrace strange new life instead of abusing them for our own gains, something the Altonoids do not understand—yet.”

Rinckes extends both arms. “It’s something our deceased friends and colleagues understood fully, something they lived and died by, something so many of our own have lived and died by throughout the Federation’s bicentennial existence. They form a long line of honorable people from all races and walks of life, who cherished and upheld a firm belief in interspecies cooperation and its benefits, how it taught us to learn from each other.”

The captain pauses for a good five seconds to allow his words to sink in. “Let us never forget these eighteen people who are ready for their final voyage among the stars. And let us never forget those whose bodies we couldn’t recover, who cannot be granted a proper space burial.” Rinckes bows his head in respect to someone in the first row. Kels’ skin tingles as she realizes that has to be Tony Blue. Muffled gasps betray others share her surprise. What a kind but potentially controversial gesture. She is unsure what to make of it.

Rinckes continues as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. “Most of all, let us honor them by keeping them in our thoughts while we go above and beyond the call of duty each and every day, to fulfill our mission… so we will once again have a place to call home.”

An uneasy silence builds into a standing ovation, and Rinckes hurries offstage to make way for an ensign readying an electronic boatswain’s whistle. Once the applause has dwindled, the ensign bids the departed an official farewell. Commander Crow then ends the ceremony with a few closing remarks, to which Kels doesn’t listen, because she is mulling over the implications of Rinckes’ speech, especially the surprising nod to Ted and Emily’s demise. One thing is certain: hard times lie ahead for the valiant crew of the _Achilles_ , a crew that has found itself in a long-term battle of attrition.

* * *

The funeral service alternated between crushing and lifting Lieutenant Ernest Baxter’s spirits. As he steps out of the cargo bay and into a corridor, conflicting emotions grab him by the throat. The service ended nine minutes ago, but he chose to tarry instead of making a hasty exit—perhaps in the hopes of running into Lieutenant Kels, even though having a conversation partner as beautiful as her usually entails tripping over his tongue and struggling to remember his name. She had already left.

Compelled to visit each individual torpedo casing, Baxter had read the names engraved on them and whispered his goodbyes. Sadness and confusion overspread the cargo bay, stifled the air, yet a small group of brave souls remained in order to deal with their sorrow head-on. It reminded him so much of the hopelessness on Starbase 43 while their homeworlds burned. That was where he first met Tony, helped him find his wife in the chaos—eons ago.

He enters a turbolift. “Holodeck 2.” It jostles into motion with a shudder and a brief dimming of the lights. Nothing to worry about, Terrell had assured him; damage to the turbolift system may result in a bumpy ride, but its safety features checked out okay. Compensating its lack of comfort with practicality, the lift takes him to his destination: a corridor leading to the correct holodeck. Fortunately, holodecks are embedded deep within the ship and have a separate power source, so they haven’t been affected too much by the countless battles.

A quick inspection of the LCARS panel beside the holodeck’s entrance confirms its program is already running. The doors slide open to reveal a complex interaction of photons and force fields recreating an early-21st-century Earth café rife with holographic patrons. The chief helmsman enters the holodeck and the doors close behind him and disappear into the simulation, completing the illusion of entering a different realm. Everything down to the last detail, from the smell of sweat and beer to the numerous records hanging on the walls, is painstakingly accurate. Baxter saw to it himself when he designed the program.

Here it is forever midnight. The outside darkness does the crimson and sapphire lighting justice as the period-correct Robert Cray Band jams into the night from a corner dedicated to the finest guest musicians. At the bar sits the only other flesh-and-blood person, Lieutenant Tony Blue, hunched over his synthehol approximation of a fine whiskey. Meanwhile, the Robert Cray Band breaks into an expert rendition of “What Would You Say.”

Baxter mounts the stool next to the chief tactical officer and signals the barkeeper to bring him a refreshment. “So, Tony, seems like you beat me to it.”

“Made a beeline for this bar as soon as the boatswain’s whistle sounded.” Tony takes a sip of whiskey. “For what it’s worth, asking me to meet you here after the service was one of your better ideas.”

Baxter raises the glass of liqueur the bartender has served him. “I’ll drink to that.”

Tony looks around. “I’ll admit this is a much better setting to relax in than most of our lounges nowadays. Smashed to bits, the whole lot of them. Lounge Delta even had its exterior windows broken and lost its furniture in an explosive decompression.”

“Luckily, nobody’s doing any lounging during red alert.”

This elicits a soft chuckle from Tony. In the background, Robert Cray lets loose on his sunburst Fender Stratocaster, mouthing and singing the corresponding notes as he exalts his solo to bluesy perfection.

“So, what did you make of the service?” Baxter asks, trying to sound matter-of-factly despite the heavy subject matter.

“Appropriate, I guess. I just can’t get used to him opening his trap for more than three consecutive sentences, putting his hypocrisy on display with an elaborate speech that was no doubt meant to be inspirational.”

This rapid and brutally honest response nearly causes a sip of liqueur to enter Baxter’s lungs instead of his stomach. Forced to set down his drink, he is treated to the sensation of synthehol burning the inside of his nostrils, which doesn’t prevent him from giggling and saying, “No, tell me what you really think.”

Tony fails to hold back a smirk. “Yeah, I surprised myself too there. I wish I could say these things to the captain’s face. Truth be told, I do, but it’s always an imaginary captain I scold.” He takes another modest sip of whiskey and savors its taste. “Man, the things I’ve told imaginary Captain Rinckes. I love telling him off.”

“And what will you tell faux captain about his alluding to Ted and Emily’s fate in his speech?”

Tony’s gaze drifts off and his smile fades as he considers his reply. Robert Cray is singing apt lyrics in the background, broaching the subject of ending all wars and getting along for a change—a sentiment recorded almost four centuries ago, as fitting now as it was back then. “You know what, Ernest?” Tony says at long last. “I would say, ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking?’” He sighs deeply. “And then I’d say… ‘Thank you, for acknowledging them, at least. It’s a start.’”

As Tony gently shakes his glass to jangle the ice cubes in it, Baxter finds himself speechless for a few seconds. “I, uh…”

“Go ahead. You can speak freely. We have the same rank.”

“I wonder what your speech would’ve been like had you been the captain.”

Tony grumbles. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’ve no doubt you would’ve done the same, back at the S’Prenn wreck, put it all on the line to save the twenty-eight. You would’ve held the speech, and it would’ve been… less hollow. You’ve given so much for the success of this mission, for the Federation.”

“I’d have to live with eighteen deaths on my conscience.” Tony’s stare bores its way into Baxter’s skull. “Trust me, I don’t envy him.” He lets out another deep sigh. “I envy Lieutenant Surtak and his surefire methods for putting a lid on the strongest of emotions.”

“Tony, some of us would like nothing more than to have you lead—”

“Surtak has the ability to do his job and do it well, without being sidetracked by what life throws at him. Perhaps we should’ve sent a ship full of Vulcans on this mission.”

Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs seats himself next to Tony and Baxter and taps a fingernail against Tony’s glass. “Hot damn! There has to be real alcohol in there for you to say that!”

Baxter had nearly forgotten he invited the security chief over too. Being a pilot, he is quick to adapt. “Welcome to Baxter’s, the finest blues bar in town.”

“Eh, more of a jazz guy,” Gibbs says as he orders a beer by lifting an index finger. “Anyway, I’m here now, so you owe me a try at my favorite martial arts training program.” While Baxter tries to come up with a polite declination, Gibbs pats Tony on the shoulder and says, “What a nice thing of the captain to do, bowing his head to you and everything. It seems we’ve led the captain on the road to redemption. I’m telling you, that icy heart of his is thawing.”

Baxter can’t resist putting in his two cents. “Maybe. He’s no Captain Harriman, that’s for sure.” Before Gibbs can mitigate his statement, Baxter adds, “Keith Harriman would never have ordered me to abandon two crewmembers.”

“I never took you for being the resentful type, Ernest,” Gibbs says as the bartender hands him a beer. “It doesn’t suit you. I’m not saying you’re wrong, though. Harriman was a class act.”

Baxter nods. “A captain who actually cared for his crew, who never lost sight of an individual’s value, who was part of a rare breed of commanding officers who can be a leader and a friend.”

Gibbs raises his half-full glass. “To Captain Harriman.”

“To Captain Harriman,” the chief helmsman echoes. Only then does he notice Tony has been quiet ever since Gibbs arrived; the young man is staring into his whiskey glass the way he tends to stare out of windows.

It’s as if Tony senses he is expected to speak up. “Rinckes is a pragmatist, erring on the side of caution.” He finishes his whiskey in one swig. “Memories of my Q days have grown vague, but I’ll never forget my visit to the _Saratoga_ with my dear friend Captain Mathieu Duvivier, may he rest in peace, when we travelled to the year 2367, to the battle of Wolf 359.”

Baxter and Gibbs listen to him slack-jawed. He hardly ever shares stories concerning his former life as a member of the Q Continuum.

“I gave us temporary non-corporeal forms in order to preserve the timeline. I wanted to teach him about the Borg, warn him of an impending invasion. He ended up hating Rinckes’ guts for the remainder of his life. You see, Mathieu’s mother, Sandra, was the _Saratoga_ ’s chief medical officer. The Borg crippled the ship, the computer began counting down to an imminent warp core breach, and its crew and passengers fled to the escape pods.”

The band keeps playing, but even the barkeeper and nearby patrons are eavesdropping on the lieutenant.

“Sandra was the heroic type, the kind of woman who puts others’ wellbeing before her own. It’s why she became a doctor. She could’ve made it out alive if she hadn’t stopped to help an injured man. In the chaos, she got separated from her patient, so she resumed her way to the escape pods, which were filling up with scared officers and civilians. You know who else was there?”

Nobody answers.

“Lieutenant Commander Stephan Rinckes— _Saratoga_ ’s old security chief—was on a two-week visit to streamline their security division. A fool’s errand, in hindsight. Nine days in, the _Saratoga_ was ordered to engage the Borg cube headed for Earth and suffered critical damage. Rinckes was one of the first to arrive at an escape pod. Its pilots had discovered a malfunction: the doors had to be closed manually. So he assumed command of the pod and began guiding people in from the starboard side entrance. The computer announced there were ten seconds left before warp core containment failure.”

Baxter can already guess how the story ends.

"Like I said, had Doctor Duvivier hurried to the escape pod in favor of assisting the wounded man…” He lets out a long breath. “Commander Rinckes locked eyes with her as she ran toward him from the other end of the corridor. He whispered ‘sorry’ and closed the door.”

“Tough call to make,” Gibbs says in a somber voice.

“Mathieu and I witnessed the whole ordeal. I… I shouldn’t have put him through that. I was so blinded by my powers I’d become oblivious to the pain of others.”

Baxter wants to say something comforting, but words elude him.

“Thing is,” Tony continues, “while we stood there watching Doctor Duvivier sag to her knees in defeat, the three of us waiting for the inevitable explosion that would tear the _Saratoga_ apart, we realized it took quite a while. Six seconds, to be exact.”

“She could’ve made it,” Baxter says.

“Yeah.” Tony bites his lower lip and fondles the wedding ring he’s still wearing. “But Rinckes… errs on the side of caution.”

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 18, 2386 – Stardate 63541.7**

Doctor Chris Kingsley waves hello as Captain Stephan Rinckes enters the observation lounge behind the bridge. The rest of the senior staff has been present here for a good minute, with the exception of Jon Terrell, who is in command of the _Achilles_ for the duration of this meeting, having already been briefed. Kingsley was the first to arrive, unwilling to delay this assembly any further. While his colleagues trickled into the lounge, he admired the view offered by the huge windows overlooking the ship’s stern, a far more interesting spectacle than the wide computer terminal on the opposite bulkhead.

Kingsley taps his feet incessantly, a nervous habit hidden by the large table separating the attendants. Captain Rinckes takes a seat at the head of the table, to the doctor’s left. Lieutenant Tony Blue sits at the opposite head of the table, flanked by Lieutenants Jeremy Gibbs and Ernest Baxter. Across from the doctor sits Commander Erin Crow, sporting her usual grim expression. Lieutenants Kels and Surtak form their own little Neutral Zone in the middle.

“Welcome everyone,” Crow says. “The objective of this meeting is to apprise the senior staff of our investigations’ results. Thanks to our hard work, we have broadened our understanding considerably, so pay attention.”

It takes Kingsley all the willpower in the galaxy to keep from pointing out the redundancy of that last notion.

“Thank you, Commander,” Rinckes says. “Our expanding knowledge of S’Prenn biology and technology combined with cross-referencing the S’Prenn and Altonoid databases has led us to some interesting conclusions.”

Crow is poised on the edge of her seat. “This information will be made available to all personnel. You are free to discuss this with your department at your discretion.”

The captain turns toward Kingsley. Finally! “Could you fill us in on your findings regarding S’Prenn physiology?”

Like an actor rearing to go when the curtain raises, Kingsley jumps at the chance to share his insights. “The S’Prenn are indeed extradimensional visitors from another universe. I’ve confirmed that a S’Prenn’s brain functions as a quantum computer, capable of adapting mind and body to whichever universe they choose to reside in. This also enables them to attune to a limitless variety of nervous systems in order to highjack their hosts. It’s riveting stuff, really.”

“It is,” Kels says, having received a glance of approval from the captain. “They travel to other universes by cultivating biological portals. The mysterious nebula that formed next to Station A-12? One of their portals. The Altonoids misused its properties to develop a bioweapon based on their earlier experiments on the S’Prenn.”

Surtak raises an eyebrow. “The S’Prenn database mentions that creating such a portal necessitates an irreversible growth period, usually lasting over a year. Therefore, great care is required when initiating such a process.”

“True,” Kels says, “Growing a portal near A-12 was meant to improve diplomatic ties with the Federation. They intended to use A-12 as an outpost to solidify our alliance and protect us from the Altonoids.” Her antennae droop subtly. “Quite a step for them, because other portals have been carefully hidden. This was a significant gesture of trust. An irrevocable one.”

A heavy silence befalls the lounge.

Tony, from the other side of the table, speaks up for the first time in this meeting. “They couldn’t have known Station A-12 would fall.” Gibbs and Baxter nod their agreement.

Rinckes meets Tony’s gaze. “According to the logs we deciphered, the S’Prenn were planning to retake Station A-12 once the portal was fully formed.”

“They underestimated their enemy,” Tony says.

“The costliest of mistakes. They believed one vessel would do the trick, and justifiably so, but it never came back. So they sent another, then a small squadron, then a fleet. When the lost ships returned, filled with subjugated S’Prenn hellbent on spreading the bioweapon, the Altonoids had them by the throat before they realized what hit them.”

Kingsley summons a cheerless smile. “Sad as it may be, does anyone else appreciate the irony of the S’Prenn falling victim to their own specialty: mind control?”

Tony dares to answer that loaded question. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say, ‘No, not really.’ Taking over an individual is one thing, taking over an entire race to have them bow to your will and betray their allies is a whole different level of moral depravity.”

Crow scoffs. “You don’t speak for everyone, Lieutenant. Don’t trivialize an individual’s worth to get your point across. Your encounter with that dying S’Prenn may have clouded your judgment.”

Tony pulls back slightly, his mouth contorted in a grimace. Baxter comes to the rescue, saying, “That dying S’Prenn had a name: Kronn. His friends and family melted before his eyes because of the Altonoids’ bioweapon.”

Gibbs cuts in. “Let us not forget the prime reason for the S’Prenn’s suffering. They wanted to help us.”

“You said it.” Tony all but slams his fist on the table. “And what did they ever ask from us in return? What did they stand to gain? Not a heck of a lot. They helped us anyway. Why? Because they saw something in us that made them care.”

Kels rallies to his cause. “If that’s not the extension of unconditional friendship, if that doesn’t align with Federation ideals…”

“The S’Prenn are like us in many ways,” Gibbs says.

“We shouldn’t speak ill of them,” Baxter adds.

“I stand corrected,” Kingsley says to keep the meeting from derailing further, though he cannot resist putting his hands up to satisfy his theatric flair. “Now that I have the floor again, I’d like to discuss another important discovery. The mind-controlling bioweapon was used in excessive quantities to cripple the S’Prenn wreckage and melt every soul on board. It’s the same compound. In relatively small dosages, up to 1 cc, it renders its victim susceptible to brainwashing; higher dosages result in permanent brain damage. The higher the dosage, the worse the effects, as one might expect. Above dosages of 3 cc, the subject goes absolutely haywire. Above 4 cc, internal organs begin to melt; above 5 cc, its exoskeleton joins in.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask…” Tony says. “How was this information acquired?”

“S’Prenn wreck’s database. They paid with their lives to steal this information from the Altonoid medical facility they fled.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. That doesn’t entirely answer my question.”

“Do you want me to say it out loud? Fine, we’re all adults here… The Altonoids learned this through the joys of extensive experimentation on live subjects. They have dozens of these facilities spread throughout their territory.”

“Their main facility,” Rinckes says, “appears to be Station A-12.”

Tony grunts. “Because of its convenient location.”

“Correct,” Surtak says. “Station A-12 is their primary medical research base. It has been refitted and heavily fortified. In addition to its upgraded defenses and weaponry, a fleet of Altonoid warships has been assigned to guard it.”

“Paranoid as they are,” Crow says, “a sphere of detection sentries surrounds the area, robbing us of the chance to sneak in under cloak.”

“In addition,” Surtak says, “we have found ample evidence of the cure’s existence. The cure that the dying S’Prenn…”—he bows his head in respect—“Kronn informed us about has a strong possibility of being on Station A-12, rendering such a base an alluring target. However, given the unacceptable risk involved in such an endeavor, I recommend we start by investigating smaller facilities, for which we now possess new leads.”

“I agree, Surtak,” Rinckes says. “As of now, this is our top priority.” He pushes away from the table and rises to his feet. “That will be all.”

Not quite yet. Kingsley has a final warning in store for them. “Investigating those installations won’t be for the fainthearted. Perhaps we could create a holodeck program to prepare for these missions.”

“See to it. Dismissed.”

As the lounge clears, Kingsley begins humming to himself in delight while contemplating the horrors he can invoke for the poor bastards who’ll use this training program.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 22, 2386 – Stardate 63552.2**

Oh, he has done it now. Tony hasn’t mustered the courage yet to ask the computer what time it is, but the six o’clock alarm going off is nothing but a distant memory. Even after over a month of widowhood, he still clutches the fitted sheet next to him upon awakening, confused by how that side of the mattress is empty, only for sorrow to emerge from his drowsy subconscious and gnaw at him.

Any minute, the combadge on his nightstand will channel an angry voice asking him what the hell is keeping him. Instead of getting up, suiting up, and rushing to the nearest turbolift, he opts to stare at the ceiling. Trouble awaits on the bridge, so he might as well savor the moment and grant himself the illusion of choice when it comes to fending off the paralyzing somberness that glues him to his bed. You’d expect grief to become bearable as the passage of time dulls its fangs, but it’s worsening, not improving—an endless cresting of a summit obscured by storm clouds.

Something is amiss, though. A creeping sense of worry allows him to escape despair’s claws and sit up straight. As he looks around to find what’s wrong with this scene, a sudden realization dawns on him: his quarters are dead quiet. The perpetual background noise of activated engines and subsystems is missing. “Computer, lights. Computer?” No response. “Computer, what’s our status?”

Unease rids him of residual fatigue as he rolls out of bed and investigates his dark quarters as a pajama-clad explorer. Has the power gone offline? He attaches his combadge to his chest and presses it to no effect. Even the combadges are down. Could this be a catastrophic ship-wide energy drain? His heart flutters and his mouth goes from dry to parched as he hurries to the window, pulls aside the curtains, and sees the familiar streaks of stardust indicative of warp travel… frozen in place.

Tony shuts and opens his eyes five times in a row while staring at the impossible. He must be dreaming, but… he is wide awake, no question about it. Dizzy with surprise, he stumbles to a nearby seat and continues gawking from there.

Someone hands him an extra-large cup of coffee and says in a cheerful voice, “Here you go, Mister Blue.”

“T-t-thanks.” Tony frees his gaze from the motionless streaks defying the laws of physics. Beside him stands a middle-aged man wearing an old-fashioned barista outfit, complete with brown apron and oversized bowtie. Tony gasps. “Q?”

“Who else could it be?” Q replies, brandishing the smuggest of smiles. “I took the liberty of freezing time for you at precisely one minute past six in the morning. How kind of me.” While Tony sets down the steaming cup of coffee, Q saunters about the room, taking in every detail. “So this is your habitat? What a dreary place.” He scratches at a charred stain on the far bulkhead. “Though I must admit battle damage gives it a nice finish.”

Tony droops his shoulders and wishes he could fade into the darkness of his quarters, anything to avoid having Q see him like this. “Q, why are you here?”

“To check in on my favorite disappointment.”

“Oh.”

Q starts toying with a gilded starship model he has grabbed from a shelf. “You really need to work on that gratitude, young man. I saved you from a lecture on tardiness from Captain Joyless or Commander… What’s her name? Vulture?” He shudders as he mentions her, then wills the starship model to fly back to its cabinet. “News flash: your career is all you have left. I suggest you hold on to it.” With a snap of his fingers, he changes into a Starfleet captain’s uniform. Mimicking the brisk stride of a flag officer inspecting his subordinates, he walks over to Tony. “Stand at attention, officer.”

Averting his gaze, Tony slowly gets to his feet.

Q plucks at Tony’s pajamas. “Oh, mister, this won’t do.” He snaps his fingers again. In an instant, Tony’s hair is groomed, his stubble gone, his nightwear replaced by his standard-issue uniform. “Hmm, there’s a rank pip missing on your collar. What happened to your whole ‘Commander Tony Q, Starfleet messiah’ shtick?”

“Please… just leave me alone.”

Tony’s glum demeanor curtails Q’s feigned enthusiasm. “Aw, what’s that now? Living amongst ungrateful mortals isn’t how the brochure described? You expected them to hoist you onto a pedestal and worship your every sacrifice? You gave up all you held dear in a pointless effort to offer assistance and they… they make you wear…” He sticks out his tongue in disgust. “Yellow?”

“We call it gold.”

“I call it a crime against good taste.”

“It’s been years since I last saw you. Why do you show up when I’m at my lowest?”

A flicker of malice crosses Q’s expression. “You’re always at your lowest.” A third snap of his fingers dissolves Tony’s world in a bright flash.

* * *

Beneath a purple sky, thick waves of liquid mercury roll onto a black beach, shone upon by four blood-red suns in different stages of sunset and sunrise. Spanning the distance from ocean to upper atmosphere, cloud columns rise up from the silver sea. A planet this hostile would normally provide anyone without protective gear a swift death, but shielding a frail human from these lethal conditions is child’s play for a Q. In fact, Tony Blue’s senses interpret the inhospitable environment as a pleasant spring day at the Californian seashore, right down to the breeze carrying a typical brackish scent.

While Tony marvels at the gorgeous panorama, Q stands by his side. His former mentor doesn’t allow him to stare in awe for too long. “This used to be your backyard, remember?”

As often, regret brings even the most overwhelming sense of beauty to its knees. “I have forgotten so much about that life.”

“Let me refresh your Swiss-cheese memory.” Q spreads his arms in a grandiose but redundant gesture, and among the billowing columns, a vast screen appears to show a highlight reel of Tony’s life as a Q.

Too perplexed to object, Tony watches his life unfold in this unsolicited clip show. Though his physical appearance hasn’t changed much since those days, he barely recognizes this arrogant teenager wielding limitless power. Painful as it may be, he cannot pull himself away from the translucent video offset by the splendor of an alien world outside his feeble reach. Tony Q was the definition of freedom, an impressionable teen who had the universe as his playground, a far cry from the sad man he sees in the mirror nowadays. To pour salt into the wound, the reel displays heroics from his hybrid days, the transitional period between his being human and becoming Q: saving the _Kennedy_ from Altonoids, insane S’Prenn, the Borg, etcetera, back when he was permitted to meddle with Starfleet affairs and his interventions weren’t met with hostility and fear by the higher-ups in the Q Continuum.

He watches himself cooperating with close friends, all of whom he had to lose. As the images in the sky linger on Tony Q sitting in the _Kennedy_ ’s XO’s chair, exchanging jokes with the bridge crew, Captain Duvivier doubling over in laughter, unaware of fate’s cruelty, his patience for Q’s parlor tricks snaps in half. “Enough! I’m past feeling sorry for myself. I made choices; they had consequences. If you feel compelled to rub that in once every few years, then I suggest you go find a more productive hobby. Yes, I am weak. Yes, I didn’t live up to my potential. No need to tap into my flimsy brain and visualize…”

His rant trails off as his first Borg encounter appears in the sky, larger than life. Thirteen-year-old Tony hides in a maintenance alcove, whimpering to himself, the corridors lit by red lasers emanating from Borg eyepieces.

The ethereal video rewinds itself to an earlier moment: Lieutenant Ralph Blue, so much younger than Tony remembers him, clenching Tony’s hand while desperately trying to protect him from the relentless Borg and sprinting through a smoke-filled corridor until a tactical drone shoots him in the chest, causing him to slump to the floor mid-run, his hand slipping from his son’s. Tony, just a child, screams for his father, believing him dead, as drones close in on both sides. Backing away from his unresponsive dad, who would soon join the ranks of cybernetic drones by way of forcible assimilation, he covers his ears to drown out the Borg’s monotonous threats and spins around, searching for an escape route. Shaking all over, he spots an open maintenance hatch and dives through it…

…only to arrive as a twenty-year-old at the rubble of a collapsed apartment complex, digging through heaps of debris, finding his dead father and being unable to hold his hand because it is too mangled.

“Please,” Tony begs as tears hit the black sand beneath his feet and evaporate with a sizzle. “No more.”

Q raises his palms. “Don’t look at me. I surrendered control over these images to you as soon as I created the screen.”

Overhead, alien weaponry reduces starships to fiery wrecks, unstoppable enemies slaughter officers and civilians, brainwashed S’Prenn scuttle through corridors in search of victims to maim or control, high-risers topple, cities burn—all of it flashes by in quick succession. It’s too much. Tony can hardly breathe as he fights the disturbing imagery.

“Come on. Can’t you handle even the tiniest sliver of power? Focus!”

Tony closes his eyes in self-protection, but now the depictions of violence are displayed on the inside of his eyelids. “Why all this destruction?” he asks, reopening his eyes. The footage changes to him firing his trusty phaser rifle at Altonoid soldiers, using Q powers to annihilate opponents, ordering weapon strikes on enemy vessels from his first officer’s chair, tearing warships apart from his tactical station. Each act of violence thickens his throat further. He wishes he could put a stop to his actions, stop being this madman, this agent of death.

Those in his gunsights, those he had to leave behind, those he couldn’t protect bring him to one particular image: him aiming a handphaser at Captain Rinckes, who is staring him down, challenging him. It’s set to stun, so why not fire? With all his heart, Tony wills his duplicate up in the clouds to fire, but the handphaser falls to the floor like it always does. This scene keeps repeating itself until its scenery undergoes a gradual transformation to a burning street in San Francisco, _Foora_ -class fighters screeching through a green sky, and Captain Rinckes lying on his back in an Altonoid uniform, reaching for his phaser. Tony’s handphaser morphs into a phaser rifle set to kill, and he squeezes the trigger. With a nauseating thud, the phaser blast hits the captain. Rinckes lies dead on the pavement, staring at the battle-filled sky, a smoking phaser wound in his chest. All the real Tony can do is watch these abstract events unfold.

“Now why would you kill a man to save yourself,” Q says, “but not stun a man to save your wife?”

Up above, memories of Emily pass by. In this instance, his recollection prefers the mundane to the profound: sitting curled together on the couch in their bungalow, enjoying a meal in blissful silence, stargazing in Dad’s garden, slow dancing to old music in their quarters. Q’s harsh question and these memories gone bittersweet should upset him, but instead, he relishes the warm feeling he gets from this reminder of the mutual devotion she brought into his life. There may be a plethora of ways to justify his deeds and the paradoxical nature of what he has become, but they all fall short, so he says, “I wish I knew.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Yeah.” Framed by a quartet of suns, Emily smiles at him, playful twinkle in her eyes, reassuring him without uttering a word. “For all I have lost, for all the mistakes I’ve made, for all the injustice I might have endured, I got to be with her for as long as it lasted. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything the Continuum ever offered me.”

Q huffs at him. “I brought you here to discuss your hypocrisy and lack of discipline, and you defend yourself with this treacly nonsense? You’ve grown soft.”

“Yes, I have.” Tony straightens his back and walks off. “Deal with it.”

It’s as if he has slapped Q in the face. “Deal with it? Where are you going?”

The screen repositions itself to hover above the faraway ridge dividing the horizon into black and purple. It doesn’t matter that it follows him wherever he casts his gaze; seeing Emily invigorates him. “All that violence,” he says. “It’s not to protect myself. It’s to protect those I care about.” Ahead begins a memory of Tony and Emily having a lively conversation with colleagues and friends in the mess hall. “And that’s not as small as protecting one person—no matter how precious to me—and not as large as defending humanity. I have to be there for those who are alive with me. I cannot save everyone. I cannot even save myself. But I’ll give it my damnedest. Every day.”

“Stop and face me!” Q demands, his booming voice quaking the ground.

Undeterred by Q’s histrionics, Tony marches on. “After all, I’m only human.” He doesn’t bother looking back to see Q no doubt fuming in anger. No, he focuses on the screen above the ridge. On it, Ralph Blue tucks in five-year-old Tony, plants a kiss on his forehead, and says, “Goodnight, son.”

* * *

As if having stepped through an invisible doorway, Tony, still in uniform, returns to his quarters in an instant—a final courtesy from Q. The gentle hum of active warp engines and ship systems confirms he is once again in temporal synch with the universe. Partly hidden by the curtains, spears of iridescent stardust zoom by, as they should. “Computer, what is the current time?”

“ _0601 hours._ ”

Plenty of opportunity to prepare for his shift, but Tony has other plans. “Locate Captain Rinckes.”

“ _Captain Rinckes is in his ready room._ ”

Tony storms out of his gloomy quarters and heads for the nearest turbolift to settle this once and for all.


	5. Chapter IV

As if harboring the same determination and agitation as its occupant, the turbolift shudders and trembles while transporting Lieutenant Tony Blue to the _Achilles_ ’ bridge. Once there, Tony storms out and reaches the entrance of the captain’s ready room in no time flat, ignoring the nightshift led by Surtak, who raises an eyebrow at the lieutenant’s sudden appearance.

Tony exercises plenty of restraint to keep from repeatedly chiming the doorbell. A single chime suffices to announce his presence.

“ _Come in_.”

He enters the room so fast his shoulders clip the opening doors, then stops in his tracks, having expected the captain to be seated at his desk.

Captain Stephan Rinckes is standing by the left bulkhead, hanging up a freshly replicated, meter-wide picture of a _Nova_ -class science vessel. Pinning the artwork encased in a solid frame against the bulkhead one-handedly, he points at his desk with his free hand. “Adhesive.”

“Sir, we need—”

“Unless we’re facing an imminent attack, it can wait.” Rinckes snaps his fingers at the adhesive dispenser on his desk.

Stumped, Tony defaults to obeying his captain and fetches him the apparatus.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The captain uses it to add a layer of glue to the picture frame, mounts the artwork on the bulkhead, and steps back to appreciate the result: an incongruous addition to the battle-damaged ready room.

Why the pragmatic captain would resort to interior decoration at this early hour baffles Tony, and he is about to dismiss this strange occurrence and speak his mind as intended, but then he recognizes the vessel. “The _Solar Field_.”

“My first command.”

Though mentioning this is probably a bad idea, Tony must bring up the ornamental elephant in the room. “Destroyed by the Borg, if I recall correctly.”

The captain’s eyes go dead for an instant. “Sacrificed in a daring move to learn their weapons’ secrets. Her destruction saved many lives at the cost of none. She was completely evacuated when the Borg blew her up.”

The captain reminiscing about a vessel claimed by fate has disturbing implications. Tony is not in the mood to mince words. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, why hang up this picture?”

“I do mind your asking,” the captain says, a remote trace of humor in his voice. “You’ve heard the cliché ‘a ship is only as good as her crew.’ It’s true. Once the crew has left, it is just a heartless shell, a collection of resources, a dead bulk.”

Tony studies the image. The _Solar Field_ is at warp, its interior and exterior lighting is on, including an external spotlight perpetually illuminating her name and registry. “You are saying those aboard constitute her soul.”

“I’m saying materiel is expendable.”

“And your crew isn’t.”

“If only it were that simple.”

“What happens if the greater good demands you dispose of her soul piece by piece? What will be left of her in the end?” Tony faces his captain. “What will become of us?”

Rinckes returns his stare. “It’s academic. We either succeed or fail.”

“Here’s a practical question for you: How will you keep a crew together if they believe you’ll throw them to the wolves?”

A long pause. “I am aware people have been discussing my leadership. Obedience and faith in the captain is paramount.” He narrows his eyes at Tony. “Those who disagree must be kept in line.”

“And have their faith in you forced on them?”

Rinckes doesn’t take the bait. “Your shift starts in twenty-five minutes. Why are you here?”

“Please, Captain, answer my question.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“These are legitimate concerns.”

“Whose?”

“You can’t deny abandoning Ted and Emily has been a contentious decision, a divisive one for the crew. It’s left them uncertain.”

Tony half-expects Rinckes to take a step toward him, as he is wont to do when arguing, taking advantage of his greater height, but the captain remains rooted in place and says, “Forget the crew. Forget Ted. This is about Emily.”

“Of course it is,” Tony blurts out. “You never gave a damn about her. Do you think I’ve forgotten our escape from Station A-12? If I hadn’t acted quickly she would’ve died right there and then. How many safeguards did you bypass to decompress that shuttle bay? And for what? Just so you could escape faster?”

Rinckes clenches and unclenches his fists. “I should kick you out of my ready room for talking like that.”

“At least I had an excuse for fleeing the station, what with my phaser wound. But you… You only cared about yourself. You still do.”

“We both ran.” The captain’s voice has become a guttural rumble. “We abandoned countless men and women, friends and colleagues. How many, when the famous Tony Q set foot on the station, assumed you would save them like you always did? You let them down.” He composes himself, yet the muscles in his face are twitching subtly. “We let them all down.”

“Sir, I simply don’t understand why you endangered Emily during your escape.”

“I… wasn’t myself.” Before Tony can react, Rinckes emphasizes, “It wasn’t personal. It never has been.”

“Just a cold calculation for survival.”

“No. It wasn’t that. I… I cannot...” As if having flicked a switch, he becomes his unflappable self again and gives Tony a level stare. “Whatever my reasons were, they have become moot long ago. We are here now.”

“Yes, _we_ are. Emily is not.”

Rinckes looks at the _Solar Field_. “Emily was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“At the receiving end of your pragmatism. Twice. The second time proved fatal.”

The captain shakes his head and a wan smile forms on his lips. “An interesting way of putting it.” His cheerless smile fades. “I regret your loss. I do not regret my decision. If I am destined to shoulder the burden that comes with it, I accept it as part of my job. And I expect my subordinates to accept the risk.”

Tony raises his chin. “Sending people on dangerous missions is one thing, but you abandoned two crewmembers.”

“To save the many. And in those circumstances, I’d do it again. I’m not the bad guy here, Tony, just the man in charge during a no-win scenario. You have ample command experience. Don’t tell me you can’t follow my reasoning.”

“I do, but… I might’ve succeeded, and part of the crew believes that too. It worries me.” He lets out a long sigh and looks at the _Solar Field_ ’s bridge module. “However, the chances you took to save the twenty-eight and your nod to Ted and Emily’s death at the funeral service, controversial as it may have been to some… It has given me hope.” He meets the captain’s gaze. “You have my loyalty, Captain, for those reasons, out of principle, because of my sense of duty, and because we are on the same side.”

The captain hesitates. “Good.”

“And I will convince others to follow my example.”

“Noted.”

Tony deepens his tone. “But never forget the price we paid for this loyalty and the price we’ll pay for your future decisions. Never forget Emily.”

Rinckes is still as a statue, offering no reply, no response whatsoever.

“Or you’ll wind up with a ship that’s full of people, yet as empty and expendable as the _Solar Field_ post-evacuation.”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Rinckes says, an order Tony obeys before it is issued.

* * *

Now Tony has left, Captain Stephan Rinckes casts a final glance at the _Solar Field_ and returns to his desk. He powers up his desk monitor and attempts to get back to work, although his mind is drawing a blank on the next item on his to-do list. No matter how he tries to concentrate, the isolinear chip in his pocket is calling for attention. He has been carrying it with him ever since the battle near the S’Prenn wreckage. After his brush with death, impaled captain’s chair and all, the top of the pile on his desk in his quarters wasn’t reminder enough for him.

He grabs the chip, inserts it into the desk port, types an elaborate encryption code, and glares at the two files challenging him to open them. One is an official message from the Altonoids boasting about the death of two officers found in the wreckage of the _Atlunte_ , the date marked June 15. This file is no secret; everyone aboard the _Achilles_ has read it.

The second file, not so much. The Altonoids had included it to add salt to their wounds, its existence only known to him and Lt. Commander Terrell, who was first to receive it and was sworn to secrecy. Rinckes had ordered the file deleted, keeping one heavily encrypted copy of the shocking video for himself in case he should ever reconsider its fate.

While he has already seen the video too often, he selects it and presses play. As recorded by several bodycams and a drone, two Starfleet officers in white environmental suits are held at gunpoint by a phalanx of at least twenty Altonoid soldiers, also outfitted with EV suits, though their version is black and brown and has a tinted visor that makes its wearer appear anonymous and inhuman.

Lieutenant Emily Blue is lying on her back between the crates that broke her fall while Ensign Ted Barton blocks the Altonoids’ path to her, arms held out, his voice shaky as he pleads, “I am a medic! I beg you, do not harm my patient.”

A tall Altonoid—presumably their leader—walks up to him.

“Please let me give her the medical care she needs,” Ted says.

The faceless Altonoid pulls out a knife. “Any last words?”

Ted’s EV suit covers part of his facial expression, so his body language does most of the talking: his movements become jerky and his raised palms unite in a gesture of supplication. “Please, the Seldonis IV Convention protects our rights as prisoners of war. We surrender unconditionally.”

The Altonoid slashes at the ensign’s knee, drawing no blood but rupturing the young officer’s EV suit, which starts hissing violently as its oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere leaks out in a fast-moving plume of smoke.

Ted tries to cover the leak with his digits, enabling the leader to slice another rupture into his suit, by the shoulder. The Altonoids laugh as Ted contorts to stop both leaks. With no protection from Nedron Eight’s harsh temperatures and toxic atmosphere, he wriggles on the ground for a good fifteen seconds before going still.

The lead Altonoid steps over his corpse, towers over Emily, and lifts his knife. “Your turn.”

Emily strains to prop herself up on her elbows. “Wait.” She pulls out the tubes and other self-sealing medical equipment Ted had attached to her suit. Her bared teeth reflect the Altonoids’ flashlights through her mask as she straightens up, taking the pain for granted, and faces her executioner. “Do what you must.”

The Altonoid gives her a respectful nod. “We have a woman of courage here, soldiers.” He holsters his knife and takes out a handphaser. “Your death will be swift.”

Emily never lowers her gaze as the Altonoid sticks to his promise and vaporizes her on the spot.

Rinckes yanks the chip out of its port and tosses it against his desk, causing the chip to bounce and twirl around until it hits the side of his coffee mug. Ted died protecting his patient and Emily’s valor at death’s door impresses him to no end. These officers did not deserve to be killed in cold blood. They did not deserve his frigid decision to abandon them.

Tony has every right to see this. He’d be even more proud of Emily’s final moments than her captain. Yet, seeing a loved one die and being utterly powerless to stop it is the cruelest trick the universe can play on those who dare to love.

When Rinckes found Commander Melanie Simons back on Station A-12 all these years ago, he was too late to save her. She died in his arms, asking him to take care of the _Sundance_ , the ship he had neglected in order to find her, the ship that had already been reduced to fire and rubble in the battle raging outside. In a terrifying state he has difficulty remembering, he fled the station, killing all who crossed his path—barehanded if necessary.

Having the one person you love most die before your eyes breaks your heart into unrecognizable pieces, transforms you into a shadow of the person you were and could have been. He cannot recall endangering Emily’s life in the shuttle bay, but he believes Tony’s account, believes his shadow deactivated the force field.

Rinckes locates and picks up the rectangular chip beside his coffee mug and, as he has done many times before, clenches his fist around the storage device. Tightening his grip, the captain stares at the _Solar Field_ , then through it, squeezing the chip until it hurts his palm, until its plastic coating caves in.

He slams his closed fist on his desk, shattering the chip. Ignoring the stinging pain, he heads over to the replicator and opens his fist above its pad. Most shards fall down immediately, some he has to pull from his skin first, which he does without flinching, until there’s a tiny pile of alloy and plastic mixed with drops of blood, as if to form a pact.

If there were a chance to recover the data, Rinckes destroys it with one word: “Recycle.”

Two seconds of whirring is all it takes to dissolve the evidence. He gazes at his open palm and the web of blood in it, then taps his combadge with his uninjured hand. “Captain Rinckes to Doctor Kingsley. I’ve had a minor mishap. Please see me in my ready room and bring a medkit.”

“ _Right away, Stephan._ ”

Though he can count on the physician’s discretion, he leans back against his desk and thinks up an innocuous cover story for his injury. Something involving his coffee mug, perhaps. He settles for detaching the _Solar Field_ ’s picture frame, breaking its right lower edge, and rubbing his palm against it. It fell, he didn’t notice the damage, picked it up and sliced his hand. The doctor will believe him. They always do.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – July 31, 2386 – Stardate 63578.9**

Lieutenant Tony Blue recalls visiting the ship’s theater three or four times with his wife. Although this has never been his favorite pastime, he must admit the place is impressive for this type of vessel. He’d learned a while ago that Arthur and Erin Crow assisted in developing the _Achilles_ , and Erin’s love for theater inspired this construction, a love doomed to wither when her husband went missing.

Tony enters the auditorium through its port entrance and sorely misses having a beautiful woman by his side. Admiring the architecture of this large chamber distracts him somewhat from this sudden emptiness. A semicircle of tiered seats divided by two aisles surrounds the stage, which features a lone grand piano, rumored to have been patched up by none other than Chief Engineer Jon Terrell. Countless lamps give the pitch-black ceiling the appearance of a starry night, further enhancing the theater’s special atmosphere. Not all of them have remained functional, but who misses a few stars in a star field?

The recital will start in fifteen minutes and the venue is packed and buzzing with excitement. Extra seats have been placed and broken ones repaired to accommodate most of the sixty attendees, some of whom will be required to stand for the entire duration. Ever since Ensign Josh Donahue’s adventure on the S’Prenn wreckage, he has become a celebrity of sorts. It isn’t every day that an officer mutates into a temporary human/spider hybrid and lives to tell the tale—his and that of the brave S’Prenn rebels who met a tragic end.

From smackdab in the middle of the center seating area, Lieutenant Ernest Baxter waves at Tony and invites him to join him. Tony trudges to the middle tier to shake Baxter’s hand. Lieutenant Kels stands beside him, claiming most of the helmsman’s attention. Her blue skin glitters in the theater’s unique lighting, but Tony does feel sorry for whoever has to sit behind her, due to the antennae protruding from her white hairdo.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she says to Tony. “Glad you could make it. I am not overly familiar with human classical music, but Ernest here is trying to bring me up to speed.”

Even in the gloom, Baxter’s cheeks redden visibly. “Uh, yes. Yes, I’m telling her about the greats in Earth’s history.”

“I thought you were more of a blues guy,” Tony says.

“Blues?” Kels asks.

The helmsman’s blushing is about to match the light intensity of an impulse engine. “I love blues. Blues music, yeah.”

Kels either doesn’t pick up on Baxter’s obvious behavior around her or chooses to ignore it. “Let’s see how I like classical music first.”

Someone’s breathing down Tony’s neck. “Is this seat taken?” a reluctant voice asks, belonging to Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, who looks as if enemy soldiers could rappel from the ceiling at any given moment to mock him for being here.

“You can sit with us,” Kels says with a smile, and she takes the initiative to sit down. In a synchronized movement, Baxter sits down beside her.

Noticing Gibbs’ unwillingness to pick a seat just yet, as if that would make his attending this recital official and irrevocable, Tony says, “You’d rather have Donahue give a martial arts demonstration?”

The muscular security chief grumbles. “I respect the discipline and effort needed to master an instrument and the gumption it takes to perform in front of a live audience… but yeah, I’d rather have him flaunt his combat training.”

“Maybe he’ll karate chop the piano in half.”

“Here’s hoping.”

They watch as people file into the auditorium, including the captain, his first officer, and the doctor, who seat themselves in the front row by the port entrance at the expense of three low-ranking officers, who willingly give up their seats. While these officers spread out in search of new places to sit, Gibbs flips through the playbook and says, “Not a single jazz composition.” He and Tony settle themselves in their chairs. “Only cloying, sensitive classical music. What’ll they think of our security division after this?”

“Stay awake and you’ll find out.” With Grumpy Gibbs to his left, and Blushing Baxter to his right boldly attempting to reanimate his conversation with Kels, Tony leans back and waits for the show to start.

Before long, Josh Donahue scuffles onto the stage in full dress uniform. If it hadn’t been for the brightening stage lights, he would’ve snuck up to the piano unnoticed. Anticipatory chatter dies out to be replaced with applause, of which Gibbs’ insincere but loud contribution threatens to inflict permanent hearing damage to Tony’s left ear. The security chief throws in an encouraging yell for good measure. At least he’s being supportive.

With a quiet posture, Josh opens with the instantly recognizable intro of Debussy’s Claire de Lune and transfixes the audience from the first note onward. Despite its suboptimal condition, the auditorium provides excellent acoustics. The ensign’s playing is not flawless—there are mistakes, the occasional wrong note, some pacing issues—but it is genuine and heartfelt, and it holds all present spellbound. Staring at the piano keys as if they were a long-lost lover, Josh breezes through Debussy’s most notable works and segues into Satie’s Gnossiennes and Gymnopedies, stirring the rapt crowd. Each time applause erupts, Gibbs’ contribution to it becomes slightly more genuine.

A bit of stage light bleeds into the first rows, illuminating Captain Rinckes as he listens intently with his usual indecipherable expression, Commander Erin Crow, who sits closer to the captain each passing piece, and Doctor Chris Kingsley, who hasn’t stopped smiling since the recital began. Off to the far right, near the starboard entrance, Lieutenant Surtak takes in the music, emotionless but appreciative. Tony wonders if the Vulcan’s pointy ears and better hearing allow him to pick up nuances in the compositions human ears cannot.

Josh lets loose his piano skills with the impossibly fast piece La Campanella. He didn’t need the spider arms to play this after all, and it earns him the first standing ovation of the evening, during which Lieutenant Commander Terrell pops in to stand beside Surtak and admire the rest of the performance. Even the modest Terrell couldn’t resist seeing the repaired piano in action. In fact, when Josh throws in several compositions of his own, Terrell slaps Surtak on the shoulder every time the ensign wows the audience. Surprisingly enough, Surtak is okay with it.

By the time Josh reaches his selection of Chopin’s Nocturnes, he is completely in the zone and transcends his limitations as a musician. There seems to be more to it, though. As he navigates these intricate, melancholic melodies, he plays with a maturity beyond his age, a sorrow beyond one man’s suffering, conveying the grief of someone who saw his children and friends die.

Kronn’s memories never left.

Josh performs his heartbreaking rendition of Nocturne in C Sharp Minor, and the audience revels in it with bated breath, uniting them in a collective aching that, if only for a few minutes, salves their wounds. It’s enough to bring a lump to Tony’s throat. He has lost more than he could ever have imagined, given more than he could ever recover, yet he is not alone.

Surrounded by his brothers in arms, Tony looks up at the imperfect star field, allows each and every stroke of the piano keys to reach within his soul, and relishes the moment, for it may never come again.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Altor Seta – November 26, 2387 – Stardate 64899.3**

For once, their away mission takes them to a location where EV suits aren’t required. In fact, Altor Seta features a temperate climate with breathable atmosphere and twenty percent lower gravity than Earth, giving Lieutenant Tony Blue the impression he is in much better shape than he should be with his once-a-week visit to the gym. The planet’s rich flora and fauna are hidden from view, however, as he and Lieutenant Ernest Baxter prowl the corridors of a secret Altonoid lab, which isn’t secret anymore to the valiant crew of the _Achilles_.

Baxter halts by a heavy door, careful to avoid triggering its motion sensors, and studies his tricorder. “Target reached. I’m reading three life signs—human.”

Tony readies his phaser rifle. “We’re taking no chances. Cover me. Stay clear of the door until my signal.”

Also armed with a rifle, Baxter alternates between covering both ends of the hallway. Tony crouches and triggers the door’s sensors by touching the floor with an outstretched hand. As soon as the door opens, Tony points his rifle into the room while keeping most of his body hidden behind the door jamb.

“Halt!” Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Gibbs shouts, blinding Tony with his rifle’s flashlight. “Drop your weapon!”

“I liked you better before your promotion,” Tony teases. “Blue and Baxter reporting in, sir. Area secure.”

Gibbs sighs in relief. “We’re all accounted for.”

Tony steps into the room. In its center, Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell is hacking into the main computer terminal. Commander Erin Crow has her back turned to them as she guards the room’s opposite entrance. This particular lab room is the size of a Federation vessel’s standard quarters, yet according to the intel they’ve puzzled out, this is where local Altonoid scientists store and access a fair portion of sensitive information, and security is relatively lax thanks to the scatterbrained nature of its eccentric director.

Baxter peeks around the corner and Gibbs waves him in. Using hand signals, he instructs Baxter to help him guard the door and Tony to help Crow.

“This is brilliant,” Terrell says, uploading the terminal’s data to his tricorder. “I even found a batch of floor plans for other research facilities!”

“Please hurry,” Crow says, her unease worsened by the wall-mounted S’Prenn corpses in various states of dissection. Away teams have visited a wide range of Altonoid research facilities, but nobody has grown accustomed to the brutal treatment the S’Prenn continue to undergo.

Tony, his weapon aimed at the exit, casts her a glance over his rifle sight. “We’re the only ones alive in this room. Focus on the door. We’ll be back aboard the _Achilles_ before you know it.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a first-year cadet.”

 _Must. Resist. Sarcasm. Reflex._ “My apologies, Commander.”

“Um, fellas,” Terrell says as the intruder alert sounds. “We should go. We have what we want.” Stern Altonoid voices express warnings over the comm system, and both exits lock their doors with a metallic thud.

Crow presses her combadge. “Away team to _Achilles_. Five to beam up.”

No response.

“This facility’s in lockdown,” Terrell says, rushing past her. “Transporters and communications dampened”—he rips out the panel of the door Tony and Crow are guarding and starts tinkering with its exposed wires—“for a one-mile radius.”

“How do we return to our ship?” Baxter asks.

Terrell flashes him a smile. “No worries, Baxxie. Come here. You too, Tony.” He reaches into the toolkit strapped around his waist and gives them one emergency transport unit each, saving one for himself. For such a powerful device, it is deceptively tiny: a round object barely an inch in diameter. It was first used in 2379 by Lieutenant Commander Data in order to save Captain Picard’s life before sacrificing his own by preventing an outlawed thalaron generator from destroying the _Enterprise_. “Set your tricorder to indicate you’re outside the dampening field. Once clear, activate the transport unit. It’s preconfigured to beam you to the _Achilles_.”

“Where’s mine and Gibbs’?” Crow asks.

“You’ll have to share.”

Crow upgrades her stare to three out of five scowling stars.

“Good news is I’ve modified it.” Terrell strains to adjust an unseen panel or wire and the door slides open. “Enhanced its energy storage. It now has two uses: two for one person, or one for two simultaneous beamups.” He gestures at the open doorway. “Let’s shake a leg, people.”

* * *

According to their predictions, twelve Altonoid soldiers patrol this research outpost. All of them are chasing the away team through Altor Seta’s exotic vegetation and fire phasers at random in hopes of killing the five sprinting officers. Thick foliage renders it difficult to keep track of one’s colleagues. However, it also provides cover.

Tony has difficulty maintaining the pace. Of course his phaser scar chooses this particular moment to act up again. His old injury hampers his ability to navigate this obstacle course filled with amazing variations of trees, shrubbery, twisting roots, meat-eating flowers, and dog-sized crawling and flying bugs. Especially the bumblebee-like creatures snapping at his extremities annoy him to no end, although clubbing these carnivores out of the way with his rifle is a welcome distraction from the occasional Altonoid phaser beam whizzing by.

A hand in the small of his back pushes him along. “How much farther?” Tony asks the hand’s owner.

“No idea,” Gibbs answers. “Keep running. I got you.”

Just as Tony begins to gain a new appreciation for the value of teamwork, a stray phaser beam shears a sizeable branch off an overhead tree and sends it sailing down at him. Gibbs takes aim and causes the branch to erupt in cinders, saving Tony from a nasty headwound.

Right then, a sharp-fanged and overly determined bumblebee the size of a soccer ball latches on to the lieutenant’s left elbow. Tony yelps in pain and starts flapping his arm about like a deranged man trying to get airborne. Still running, he repeatedly punches the hovering ball of yellow fur, which refuses to budge in the slightest. Its faceted eyes stare at him in confusion, as if it is second-guessing its lunch choice. Even though this clingy insect’s bite hurts, freeing his arm will have to wait, because they encounter Baxter lying flat on his face and Terrell trying to help him up.

Baxter is uttering mild profanities while Gibbs grabs him by the torso and lifts him to his feet. “I stumbled like an idiot. I’m all right.”

Terrell’s eyes go wide when he sees Tony. “Blimey, there’s something on your arm.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Crow appears from out of the shrubbery. “Come on, guys. We—” A salvo of phaser bursts interrupts her and lights up the area. Tony dives for cover and tackles Crow to the ground as mud and flames surround them. At least this motivates the bumblebee to finally let go. But now Tony hears someone cry out in agony.

It’s Gibbs. He drops to his knees and yells in pain, fighting back tears, a smoldering phaser wound between his shoulder blades. Bristling leaves betray the Altonoid soldiers’ approach. As if telepathically linked, Baxter and Terrell choose a side each and drag Gibbs off as quickly as they can, no doubt grateful for this planet’s lower gravitational pull.

Crow clutches Tony by the jacket and yanks him up. “You have a transport unit, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She fires a couple of shots at their hidden pursuers to buy time, seizes Tony’s wrist with the ferocity of an indigenous bumblebee, and guides him in another direction than Gibbs and company’s escape route. Splitting up is wise, given the circumstances, as long as they make straight for the shield perimeter.

A memory surfaces in Tony’s mind of skipping through a field, holding hands with a classmate, though despite his dark and troubled past, there weren’t soldiers shooting at him back then. Since Crow’s wrist-grabbing precludes the use of his right arm, he grabs the muzzle of his phaser rifle with his left and uses the weapon to bat at nosy insects, even though his wounded elbow stings something fierce.

A humongous centipede uncurls to block their path. The twenty-foot-long invertebrate has decided the two officers could be an interesting meal, and it opens its monstrous beak in a high-pitched screech. Footsteps and shouting Altonoids remind them they cannot afford this delay. Still clenching Tony’s wrist, Crow fires at the creature, which only infuriates it. One-handedly, Tony flips his rifle around, adjusts its setting to a higher intensity, and fires a shot that slices off a slab of the bug’s exoskeleton. The centipede writhes closer to them despite Tony and Crow firing off burst after burst, and soon their firing is joined by stray Altonoid phaser beams.

Tony shakes his wrist loose to better aim at the creature. “Cover me! Back-to-back!”

Crow spins around and fires at the disturbingly nearby Altonoids, who remain concealed by the vegetation. Her warm hair presses against the nape of Tony’s neck as she provides steady covering fire to slow the Altonoids’ advance and his phaser bursts chip at the relentless centipede’s beak. The furious arthropod raises its ugly head like a cobra mimicking its snake charmer’s motions, and Tony takes a step forward to draw a bead on its eyes.

A signal chimes, originating from his tricorder.

“We’re outside the dampening grid!” Crow says.

Tony fires two more bursts and affixes the small, circular transport unit to his collar bone. The centipede recoils, shakes off a blackened venom claw, and prepares for another lunge.

An Altonoid shouts, clear as day, “Lower your weapon, human female!”

Crow tenses up and complies, which convinces Tony there must be multiple Altonoids emerging from the bushes. Without hesitation, he turns around, wraps an arm around her to reel her in, and flicks a thumb against the transport unit. One second later, their world becomes a blue particle mist in which the centipede lashes right through their dematerializing bodies. Over the characteristic whine of active transport, Altonoid soldiers scream in terror as the oversized insect tears into them.

The screaming dies out as soon as Tony and Crow rematerialize on a transporter pad, safely aboard the _Achilles_ , holding each other tightly.

Crow sighs in relief. “Thanks for the lift, Lieutenant.”

“Happy to help,” Tony replies, catching his breath.

A subtle cough from the transporter chief prompts them to break off their lifesaving hug.

Crow pats off her uniform as if nothing has happened and walks up to the chief. “Did the others make it?”

“They’re beaming to transporter room 3 as we speak.”

She resumes her all-business expression. “Alert sickbay. Wounded incoming.”

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ – December 6, 2387 – Stardate 64926.2**

Lieutenant Tony Blue rubs his elbow. Although a medic healed it shortly after the completion of the Altor Seta mission, it continues to itch every once in a while, or maybe it is just a resilient memory of that enthusiastic bumblebee with attachment issues. “Computer, what is the time?”

“ _0605 hours._ ”

Earlier than needed to make it to his shift. In fact, the past few months he has woken up feeling rested, despite the stress and danger that has become part of everyday life. Jumbled nightmares about Altonoids, Borg, and S’Prenn remain a regular occurrence, but his nightly panic attacks have subsided.

Tony puts on his uniform jacket to complete his attire and inspects himself in the mirror. If only he felt as young as the twenty-five-year-old staring back at him. He has allowed a stubbly circle beard to grow, which has garnered two effects: he has a more mature look, and Lieutenant Baxter frequently asks him when he will return to the Mirror Universe and send the original Tony back.

In the living area of his tidy yet battle-damaged quarters, he collects a handphaser and tricorder from a drawer to secure them to his belt. Both items have become mandatory for on-duty personnel. A sensible precaution, given the hostile territory they’re always in.

His gaze rests on the corner dedicated to his loved ones. Prominently on display beside the holopictures of Tony, his dad, and Emily, is a wireframe heart, torn asunder yet held together by near-invisible wires, a thoughtful and surprising gift from Jon Terrell. And to think the unassuming chief engineer had almost trashed it. Tony is glad Terrell summoned the courage to share this custom-made work of art with him. Speaking of which, he should pay the man a visit. But first, Tony is going to have an early-morning walkabout and swing by sickbay to go see poor Jeremy Gibbs.

* * *

Wherever Tony’s stroll leads, he finds damage and disrepair. Flickering light fixtures dangling from ceilings have become a staple of the typical _Achilles_ corridor, as are loose panels, exposed circuitry, char stains, barricaded sections, and harried crewmembers carrying handphasers. These troopers are at work despite mild injuries, wear frayed or torn uniforms, and look like they haven’t showered in days. Ship systems declining or failing is taking its toll on all of them—a process so gradual one almost gets used to it, save for these moments of reflection. It is easy to forget this vessel has been out here on its own for five consecutive years.

After being forced into another detour to avoid a collapsed deck section, Tony arrives at stellar cartography and steps inside. This voluminous chamber has a holographically projected star map shrouding every surface. By the lone computer terminal at the far end of the room, Lieutenants Ernest Baxter and Kels chitchat, unaware of Tony’s presence.

“I don’t think so,” Baxter says. “I mean, playing guitar for a holographic audience is entirely different from an actual living and breathing one.”

“If that is true, what’s the point of practicing so often?” Kels teases.

“What’s the point? You’re asking me?” He laughs. “What’s the point of you stuffing your quarters with culturally diverse tableware and outdated equipment? I bet you haven’t seen the floor in months!”

Kels punches his arm playfully. “Hey, you don’t get to judge me, not until you’ve played a concert in our theater.”

“I’m not Donahue. I’ve no desire to hog the spotlight like he does.”

“No, you’re not. You’re better! You should challenge him to a stage duel.”

Tony slowly backs into the holographic stars and re-enters the corridor, seemingly disappearing in outer space as the doors close. These two and their incessant tentative flirting… If they don’t confess their feelings for each other soon, someone is going to snap and scream “Just kiss already!” How can they take their time when each day could be their last? The _Achilles_ has evaded destruction so far during this ceaseless cloak-and-dagger mission, but luck tends to run out unannounced.

Not all intel they have found is equally reliable. Fortunately, examining S’Prenn and Altonoid databases has yielded slow but steady progress in their search for a cure to counteract the Altonoids’ brainwashing chemical weapon. They keep dredging up new targets for intel raids, which, generally speaking, have become increasingly better protected. It’s as if they’re always one tiny step ahead of the Altonoids, like a clever mouse in a wolf den. One slipup, one mistake, and it’s over.

He is still brooding on this as he arrives in the hydroponics lab, i.e. their attempt to assuage those sick of replicator rations and their sometimes questionable results, and the one spot on the ship where war seems distant. This chamber consists of an indoor park with eight gardens intersected by grass paths. The drab ceiling never fails to ruin the immersion, however.

Tony inspects a portion of the fruits and vegetables growing here. Who could’ve foretold one day the sight of cauliflowers, broccoli plants, and carrot leaves would stimulate his appetite? He is about to sink his teeth into a tomato so ripe it required but the gentlest tug to pluck it from its vine when he notices a figure meditating six feet ahead of him.

“No loitering on the grass,” Tony quips in a reflex, late to realize joking with a Vulcan is… let’s say ambitious.

Lieutenant Surtak looks up. He is on his knees, his hands steepled. “No stealing tomatoes either, Lieutenant.”

“Got me there.” He gives the ripe tomato a tender goodbye squeeze and places it on the soil. “Sorry to disturb you. The thought of running into meditating colleagues in our greenhouse didn’t occur to me.”

“No apologies are necessary. If today’s meditation demanded absolute solitude, I would not have chosen this publicly accessible location.”

“Fair enough.” Tony should leave, so he doesn’t. “Don’t you prefer desert areas? This is the polar opposite of your home world.”

“Having witnessed so much death, I prefer to surround myself with life.”

That unexpected nugget of wisdom pulls at Tony’s heartstrings and he struggles to scrounge together a reply. “Okay, wow. I’ll… uh, leave you to it then.”

Surtak lifts an eyebrow. “Did my statement elicit an emotional reaction? I did not intend to remind you of the tragedies we share.”

“It’s fine. Humans wear their emotions on their sleeves.”

“They do indeed.”

“I’ll get over it.”

Surtak gestures at the space next to him. “Sit with me, Lieutenant. Perhaps a moment of tranquility will offer solace.”

“Perhaps.” Tony accepts his invitation, because why not? He kneels beside the Vulcan and copies his body language, steepled fingers and all. “Like this?”

“Crude but sufficient.”

“Story of my life.”

“No more redundant comments, please. Be silent and let your thoughts be. Quiet your inner ocean by focusing on the present.”

Tony represses the urge to add banalities such as “be one with the grass” or “imagine your desires to be a forbidden tomato” and heeds his advice.

Truth be told, Vulcan meditation techniques do have their merits. The grass is soft to the touch, the air is fresh and rich with oxygen, and the plants dampen the constant hum of the ship’s engines and systems. Already, tension is dissipating from Tony’s muscles, especially in his neck and shoulders. His “inner ocean” is doing whatever the hell it wants, yet he could envision his troubles and pains floating off into the distance if he tried, leaving him to enjoy the present. And so, for a handful of minutes spent in wordless companionship, Tony and Surtak experience a small measure of peace.

* * *

Lieutenant Tony Blue pushes the two rubber curtains forming an entrance to sickbay aside and enters the lowly lit hallway, which stretches beyond the next corner. Expanded to 300% its original size, sickbay these days consists of a network of corridors and rooms, a research facility disturbingly similar to the Altonoid laboratories they scour for intel. One cannot roam four feet without bumping into a container and its horrific contents: S’Prenn specimens, most of them dead. Some are alive, insane, and attacking their transparent aluminum cages, which cannot be broken by S’Prenn fangs and claws, though he gives them a wide berth nonetheless. Instinctively, he hovers a hand over his phaser holster.

Tony suspects the S’Prenn carcasses and live subjects outnumber the ship’s current complement of 386 souls. A quick calculation confirms the _Achilles_ ’ journey into their former territory has claimed the lives of thirty-four crewmembers so far—a humbling statistic.

He steps over thick cables and medical equipment, which are difficult to spot in the dark. A combination of traveling under cloak and S’Prenn skin photosensitivity renders these innards of the _Achilles_ spookier than they already are with the lights on.

The corridor opens up into an equally dark chamber that used to be the entire sickbay instead of its locus. Wires and tubes crisscross the floor, and an acidic odor summons harrowing memories of the S’Prenn wreckage. Off to the right lies Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Gibbs partly covered in blankets on the only biobed not occupied by containers of decaying or convulsing arachnids. Staring at the ceiling, Gibbs grinds his teeth. His eyes and cheeks are sunken. What do you say to someone in this bad a shape? Tony approaches his debilitated colleague and settles for, “How are you holding up, Commander?”

With his mottled skin and thinning blond hair, his weakened condition, and in this unfavorable lighting, Gibbs seems sixty-eight instead of forty-eight years old. “I still can’t move.”

Tony takes a knee beside the biobed. “I’m sorry to hear that.” For a man this bent on exercise and martial arts training, being cursed with a quadriplegic state has to be gut-wrenching.

“I hate this place.”

“It gives me the heebie-jeebies too, but we have to find the cure. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself whenever I’m down here.”

“I hate this ceiling.”

“Doctor Kingsley insists your paralysis is temporary.”

“I’m done waiting.” He is blinking rapidly, one of the few means at his disposal to vent his frustration. “My team needs me.”

“Yes, they do, but Josh is doing well leading security until you’re back in the saddle.”

“He’s a good officer.”

Tony musters a smile and pats Gibbs on the shoulder. “Learned from the best.”

From the dark recesses of this sickbay of horrors, Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges. His ragged appearance matches his working environment; black S’Prenn blood splatters stain his uniform. He places a tray of used medical devices atop an adjacent container. “Speaking of the best, here I am.” He sounds tired. “I’m sorry neither of you like the scenery. I admit it is not for the fainthearted. It’s… an acquired taste.”

Neither Gibbs nor Tony have anything to add to the doctor’s observations.

“I have news regarding your condition.”

“I was just leaving,” Tony says out of politeness.

“No,” Gibbs says, nearly begs. “Please stay.”

“Suit yourself,” Kingsley says. “Judging from your spinal cord’s current state and your treatment response, I expect you to walk again in two or three months. A full recovery is the most probable outcome.”

Gibbs lets out a mighty groan, a mixture of relief over regaining his mobility and dread over having to extend his stay.

The doctor stares at the floor and shuffles his feet. “I have… an alternative, a way of expediting your recovery.”

“Let’s hear it,” Gibbs says.

“I propose attaching a limb- and headless S’Prenn to your neck. It won’t try to assert dominance, because its higher brain functions have ceased, but its adaptive biology would seek to control and repair your nervous system. You would be able to walk and use your arms within an hour, maybe faster. I speculate the repairs will become permanent after a month. Then it might be possible to surgically remove the S’Prenn.”

A beat of silence. “Are you out of your mind?” Gibbs replies. “Get away from me!”

Kingsley ignores the outburst and stares coldly at his patient.

“I’m sick of this place! I’m sick of all this!” Spittle builds up in the corners of Gibbs’ mouth. “I’m sick of you!” Hyperventilation and saliva threaten to choke him.

Kingsley collects a hypospray from a utility cart and presses its rounded tip against the security chief’s corded neck.

As the sedation takes rapid effect, and before losing consciousness, Gibbs looks Tony straight in the eye and asks, “What have we become?”

The patient goes quiet, bringing the pumping and whirring of medical equipment and the thrashing of captured S’Prenn to the foreground.

“I think he wants a second opinion,” Tony says, having no idea what else to say. “I’m guessing the disfigured S’Prenn treatment is off the table.”

Kingsley shrugs. “It’s up to him.” He picks up his tray and disappears halfway into the darkness.

“He’s not wrong,” Tony says after him. “What _have_ we become?”

Kingsley’s silhouette lowers its head. “Purveyors of necessary evil.” Reluctantly, he turns around. “We lost Nurse Durand this morning. She’d stumbled across a chemical alteration that made the bioweapon transmittable to humans. Before she realized what she’d done…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It’s safe now. We’ve disinfected her corpse and the wing she was working in, and I suppose we could consider it somewhat of a breakthrough, but damn… If we don’t find that cure soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Another death, which increases the death tally to thirty-five. “You will go on,” Tony says, “like the rest of us. We must. Everything depends on us.”

The doctor dips his chin and walks off.

Alone with Gibbs, Tony runs a hand over the injured man’s scalp. “Stay strong, Jeremy. We need you.”

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell is in his comfort zone, tucked away in an alcove in main engineering, tinkering with the secondary impulse manifold’s settings to improve its capabilities. A smart idea, given how the incremental damage the primary manifolds sustained could endanger them during battle. And there will be a next battle. So here he is, ensconced up-side-down underneath the impulse control terminal on engineering’s upper level.

Someone blocks his light and says, “There you are.”

Terrell clambers out to be met by Lieutenant Tony Blue, who extends a hand to help him to his feet. Terrell graciously accepts. The chief engineer has pulled an all-nighter once again and his muscles are upgrading their silent protest to nagging pain.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tony says. “You must have the busiest job on the ship.”

“I’m never bored.” He maintains an optimistic tone despite engineering’s shoddy state. “Whenever we fix something, there are plenty of Altonoids willing to field-test it without delay. They’re nice like that.”

“Don’t make me feel guilty about stealing their data.”

Terrell chuckles. “Those floor plans we nicked are marvelous. We’re studying them now. The files even include a complete set of floor plans for Station A-12! If you think our sickbay is scary, you should have a peek at those. The Altonoids have turned it into a horrorfest.”

“I’m good. I have a different reason for—”

“Wait. You have green on you.” Terrell removes a blade of grass from Tony’s jacket.

“I went meditating with Surtak. Don’t ask.”

“I won’t. You’re here for your own slice of Terrell tech. Follow me.”

They ride an elevator to the lower level, where Terrell opens an inconspicuous drawer and retrieves a seemingly standard-issue tricorder. He flips the tricorder to show its padding has a small recess in its center, housing an emergency transport unit.

“Exactly as I asked. Thanks, man.” Tony switches his regular tricorder for the prototype. “These transport units saved our hides back at Altor Seta.”

Terrell grins. “I wish I could take all the credit, but I simply boosted their energy storage so they can be used twice. Oh, I also made them configurable by tricorder. It’s best to keep the unit paired with your custom-built one.”

Tony taps a finger against the new tricorder in his holster. “I’m pushing the captain to make these mandatory for away teams.”

“As if I’m not busy enough as it is,” Terrell jokes and then adds in a conspiring tone, “That next away mission may happen sooner than you think. The Altor Seta intel did not only include floor plans…”

“ _Senior officers_ ,” Captain Rinckes announces over the comm, “ _report to the observation lounge at once._ ”

“Spoiler alert,” Terrell says. “It’s bound to be good news.”

“Really?”

“Let’s go and find out.”

* * *

Resembling two excited kids preparing for show-and-tell, Lieutenants Ernest Baxter and Kels are standing on either side of the observation lounge’s monitor. Projected on it is a far-off region of space with a highlighted anomaly in the top-left corner.

“Our extensive analyses confirm it beyond the shadow of a doubt,” Kels says. “Cross-referencing S’Prenn, Altonoid, and Loïdian databases has provided us with conclusive proof of a S’Prenn navigational portal’s existence in the Aragos Sector.”

“Stellar cartography corroborates our suspicions,” Baxter says.

There is an unspoken consensus among the senior staff, communicated solely through an electric mix of fear and excitement. A discovery this remarkable cannot be dismissed. From his usual spot at the head of the table, Captain Stephan Rinckes contemplates these findings. Commander Erin Crow and Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell flank him. Terrell is seated in the chair usually reserved for Doctor Kingsley, but the doctor has excused himself from this conference for understandable reasons.

“This portal,” Kels says, “is virtually identical to the one near Station A-12, making it a potential goldmine of information regarding the cure.”

Lieutenant Tony Blue, seated next to Terrell, clears his throat. “Do we know where the portal leads?”

“We don’t,” Baxter says.

“Are the Altonoids aware of this portal?” Crow asks, frowning.

“Unknown, Commander,” Kels says. “The portal is either as yet undiscovered by the Altonoids, or…” Her antennae droop slightly. “We cannot discard the possibility of it being a trap to catch stray S’Prenn vessels… or perhaps even us.”

“The Altonoids have been increasing their efforts to catch us,” Crow remarks.

Seated opposite Tony, Lieutenant Surtak leans forward. “I advise caution. There are too many variables.”

Rinckes folds his hands on the tabletop. “Agreed. Terrell, is this ship ready for battle?”

“Ready as she’ll ever be, Captain.”

“Blue, I want you to schedule and perform frequent tactical drills until we reach the Aragos Sector.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Donahue, the same goes for security drills.”

“Consider it done, Captain.” Lieutenant Junior Grade Josh Donahue sits farthest away from him—out of modesty, the captain hopes, not timidity. The acting security chief encounters far more intimidating creatures than his fellow senior officers in his line of work.

Rinckes allows himself a moment to look at his people. “What we have accomplished out here on our own is beyond exemplary. Each and every one of you can be proud of the tenacity and bravery we invested in achieving our goals. We are not out of the woods yet, but I can think of no ship and crew I would trust more to continue our mission than the _Achilles_ and her beating heart of heroic men and women.” He rises from his chair. “To your stations, everyone. Baxter, lay in a course for the anomaly, warp 8.”

His subordinates clear the room, leaving the captain to study the windows, which boast an excellent view of the _Achilles_ ’ sleek stern. She is invisible from any vantage point outside her cloaking field. It hides them, keeps them safe, and prevents the enemy from seeing her weakened ablative armor, the numerous flickering internal and external lights, and the crevasses of deep phaser scars tracing her battered hull.

Yet, somehow, her engines flash and she goes to high warp to carry them across the stars and toward their destiny.


	6. Chapter V

**USS _Achilles_ , en route to Aragos – December 9, 2387 – Stardate 64935.1**

This is an illusion. Captain Stephan Rinckes knows he is aboard the _Achilles_ , travelling toward the first S’Prenn portal Starfleet gets to study, the result of his crew’s persistent search for clues in former Federation territory, yet he finds himself haunting the corridors of Station A-12. Distorted red alert panels with frightening tendrils light the endless hallway he runs through. His phaser rifle’s flashlight casts a feeble hue onto the path ahead.

The _Achilles_ ’ destination is too important to dismiss. However, as wisps of smoke transform into monstrous parodies of Altonoid soldiers, his recurring nightmare robs him of his tenuous grasp on reality and devours him whole. Submerged in delusion, he fires at rows of deformed enemies. Each phaser burst infuriates them, causing them to growl like the animals they are and lash out with elongated arms to scratch at him with claws that have sprung from their digits.

He wipes the maniacal grin from their faces with his rifle stock. “To hell with you! All of you!” Although he lets loose with phaser fire and melee attacks, it is hatred that kills his spectral foes, reduces them to mist as he fights past them. No matter how misshapen and imposing these spirits are, they succumb to his raw fury, and bit by bit, their numbers decline until he is the last man standing.

Having slain the apparitions, Rinckes passes through a doorway and enters an observation lounge he recognizes instantly. Upturned furniture, five Altonoid corpses, starless view in the windows, phaser marks on the bulkheads, and there, surrounded by broken starship models and shards of glass, lies the woman he loved, a gaping phaser wound in her chest.

Rinckes has been here so often: once in real life and over and over in his dreams. Each time he is grateful to be with her and heartbroken because she can never be saved. She looks at him, eyes glazed over. As always, he plays his part, never deviating from his personal tragedy’s screenplay.

He crouches and holds her in his arms. “Melanie, I’m here. I’ll get you to sickbay. You’re going to be all right.” There was no sickbay to return to; their ship had already perished at this point.

“No, Captain,” she whispers. She always whispers. In a foolish act of self-protection, to prevent himself from spending hours wrapped up in biting nostalgia, he had deleted every audio and video file of her from the _Achilles_ ’ databanks. A mistake. He resisted, fought to retain the memory, but he has forgotten the sound of her voice.

“Don’t give up,” he says, “I’ll get you back to the ship.”

“Take good care of the _Sundance_ for me, will you?”

“Melanie, I…” The actual exchange took place seven and a half years ago, and his recollection of these events has gradually morphed into the content of his nightmares. He is supposed to say, “I will,” even though every fiber of his being compels him to profess his feelings for her. In each iteration of this dream, he has adhered to the lie, has stuck to his role. No more! He breaks character and begs her, “Please don’t go.” He cradles her and presses his forehead against hers. “Just this once. It’s all I have left of you. You don’t have to go. Please.”

Despite his pleading, the life drains from Melanie’s eyes until they’re reduced to an empty stare. Defeated, he caresses her blonde hair and gazes at her peaceful visage. As opposed to the numb killing spree he undertook to escape Station A-12, he is perfectly content to stay with her and cry beside her lifeless body.

To his astonishment, Melanie’s lips begin to tremble, and she struggles and succeeds to whisper a one-word warning: “Run!”

She vanishes in his arms, swept to the ghostly realm where she will be waiting for his next slumber. His nerve ends tingle as he becomes aware of two figures looming over him: Emily Blue and Ted Barton, wearing the environmental suits they died in, their faces ashen and somber behind transparent masks.

“ _How many have died because of you?_ ” Emily asks, her voice distorted by her suit’s crackling comm system.

With a glove as cold as death, Ted grabs Rinckes by the throat and lifts him off the floor. “ _Your time is up, Captain. You will cause no further harm._ ”

“I- I’m sorry,” Rinckes croaks, but there is neither life nor mercy in Ted and Emily’s eyes.

Emily adds a bony glove to the chokehold. “ _You will be with us soon._ ”

Rinckes frees himself from their grasp, swings around, and starts running, out of the chamber and into the corridors of the USS _Saratoga_.

“ _Warp core breach imminent_ ,” the ship’s computer announces as Rinckes flees through hallways crowded with civilians and officers, the latter of which in 2360s-style uniforms. He pushes these panicking men, women, and children aside and dashes forward as fast as the circumstances allow. Emily and Ted follow him wherever he goes, their magnetic boots clanging against the deck. Worse yet, gray-faced officers in tattered attire have joined them, officers he recognizes as _Achilles_ ’ fallen crewmembers. One by one, those lost under his current command emerge from rooms and corridors to form an army of the damned. They’re beginning to outnumber the period-correct characters in his dream, the ones who are evacuating the _Saratoga_ as a solitary Borg cube rips into the old vessel at the Battle of Wolf 359.

The corridor he has fled into features windows lining its port side, which should display Admiral Hanson’s ill-fated fleet and the cube they’re engaging. Instead, it shows an absolute void—no stars whatsoever. Its alluring finality nearly smothers his desire to get away, but approaching footsteps and the dead calling his name prompt him to continue toward the escape pod lying ahead, his sole means of salvation. Already, icy fingertips are touching the nape of his neck.

A bone-rattling detonation shudders the corridor and floods it with orange light. Outside, the saucer section of the _Sundance_ braves the starless void and careens by, larger than life, deck sections blowing apart as it loses entire chunks of hull. Cascading explosions produce a catastrophic rippling effect, resulting in one final explosion that shreds the saucer to pieces. Simultaneously, charred _Sundance_ crewmembers start piling in from every side entrance.

“Where were you, Captain?” they ask.

Scared witless, Rinckes shoves them aside. The escape pod is so close.

“You abandoned us!” a woman shouts after him. She receives clamorous support from the droves of people who have amassed, hundreds of them.

“What kind of man are you?”

“Come back and face us!”

“ _You’ll be one of us soon_.”

He hurries into the escape pod and taps its LCARS panel to shut the door. It does nothing.

The horde has traded their grim death masks for furious expressions as they continue their unstoppable advance led by Emily. Rinckes keeps pressing the door button to no avail, then starts prying at the escape pod hatch, but it does not budge in the slightest.

A few feet away, Tony Blue materializes between the captain and the macabre lynch mob. Tony is also wearing an EV suit, albeit without helmet, and gives Rinckes a plaintive look while reaching for his handphaser. His cheeks are tearstained and his forehead is sweaty. Biting his bottom lip, he detaches the phaser from his suit and aims it at Rinckes.

“So my first officer is going to shoot me?” Rinckes asks. The horde has neared Tony’s position. They’re ignoring him completely; they’re only interested in the captain’s blood. They will get to Rinckes and tear him limb from limb. “Then shoot me.” It would be merciful. “Shoot, dammit!”

Tony lowers his head and allows the phaser to slip from his grasp.

“Damn you! Damn you, coward!”

As soon as the phaser lands on the carpet, the crowd rushes over Tony like a river spilling over its embankments.

Straining and swearing, Rinckes attempts to pull the hatch closed. His efforts are in vain; hundreds of angry faces descend on him. Countless outstretched arms grab at him, snatch his clothing, his hair, his flesh. He is utterly helpless against this all-consuming rage. Unable to breathe or move because every inch of his body has become pure agony, he cannot even scream for help; he can only hold still and suffer…

…until he wakes to find his executioners have evaporated. He swivels his head slightly to stare through his quarters’ windows at the reassuring presence of stardust flashing by. The small replicator on his nightstand gurgles a small puddle of water into existence, omitting the glass and producing a tiny indoor waterfall. Doesn’t anything on the _Achilles_ function as it should anymore?

At least the nightmare is over and his adrenaline subsiding. That is, until he hears a loud knock at the door, which startles him and rids him of his sleepiness altogether. “Captain,” a woman’s voice says. It’s his current first officer, Commander Erin Crow.

Rinckes pushes away his sweat-soaked covers and jumps out of bed. He is not too thrilled to have her see him in his pajamas, but he isn’t planning on raising the lighting levels in his quarters anyway. “Come.”

The doors to his quarters refuse to open all the way, and Crow has to forcibly push both door slabs aside, grunting with effort and annoyance. “Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” She squeezes herself into the room. “You didn’t respond to my calls.”

His combadge lies within earshot. He must’ve slept straight through the messages it relayed.

Despite the darkness, Crow apparently picks up on his troubled expression. “Don’t worry, sir. We’re all tired.”

It’s not his deep sleep that worries him, it’s the sad fact he can’t recall the last time his dreams were pleasant. This particular nightmare has him so vexed he’d love to yell and flip a chair or table, but he stays composed for his first officer’s sake.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“What brings you here?”

Crow reveals the PADD she is carrying. “We’ve picked up an encoded subspace message on Starfleet’s emergency channel.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve verified its authenticity.”

“What’s it say?”

“Not sure. I have lifted Terrell from his bed to decipher the message. This could be huge, sir. New orders, new intel, new technology, who knows?”

“Speculation will get us nowhere.” Rinckes needs a moment to let this development sink in. They haven’t heard from Starfleet in over a year; the brass would risk communicating only to share vital information. “They were wise to encrypt it. And we would be wise to decrypt it before the Altonoids do.”

“We will.”

“Good.” Still reeling from his tussle with his subconscious, Rinckes steadies himself by placing a hand on his bed.

Crow steps toward him. “You sure you’re okay?” Even in scarce lighting, her beauty is undeniable, and her concern somehow enhances her attractiveness. She reaches out to touch his upper arm.

Rinckes brushes off her kind gesture. “I’ll be fine. I need you to oversee our decryption efforts. Go help Terrell. Ask Surtak and Kels to assist; we’ll need the brightest minds on this.”

A brief hint of pain in her eyes. “Consider it done, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

Pursing her lips, she exits his quarters without bothering to wrestle the doors closed again.

Rinckes seats himself on the mattress and considers working up the courage to return to sleep. Truth is, the difference between being caught in his nightmares or soldiering on awake is becoming harder to discern, but his personnel deserves a well-rested captain.

And so, he permits himself to surrender to starless dreams.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ , en route to Aragos – December 10, 2387 – Stardate 64939.4**

“Captain’s log, supplemental. The message Starfleet is sending out is heavily encrypted, but I am pleased to say our team has risen to the occasion. By using an array of Starfleet decryption protocols, we discovered the deciphered message comprises a series of riddles, mathematical equations typical of Federation worlds, and specific trivia questions on the history of the Federation and mankind, methods to confirm its recipients are from Starfleet.

“Once solved, it became an invitation to transmit a standard greeting on a specific lower band subspace frequency that should ensure safe communication. We will then receive new instructions. I have requested the senior staff’s presence on the bridge for this memorable event. Although we have no idea what’s in store for us, the opportunity to consult with our remote colleagues is very welcome indeed.”

Captain Stephan Rinckes looks around at the shambles of a bridge they are on. Flickering workstations, dangling ceiling conduits, broken railings, bent support struts, and loose rubble make for a depressing sight, yet the bridge crew is in good spirits.

“Power from sensors redirected to comm,” Lieutenant Kels says.

“Comm system boosted to 85% efficiency,” Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell says with a smirk. “Haven’t seen that figure in a while.”

To the captain’s right, Commander Erin Crow exhales sharply in an attempt to ease her nerves. “Give the word, Captain.”

Rinckes stands up, straightens his jacket, and lets a handful of seconds pass by to emphasize the significance of this moment. “Send a standard greeting on the appropriate channel.”

“Message sent,” Lieutenant Surtak says calmly. The Vulcan’s patience and placidity remain a constant source of envy among his colleagues.

“Now we wait,” Doctor Chris Kingsley says, seated to the captain’s left. “Is it too much to ask they have a cure packed and ready for pickup?”

“It would be a nice early Christmas gift,” Lieutenant Ernest Baxter says.

Lieutenant Tony Blue adds, “If this turns out to be an elaborate way of expressing season’s greetings and nothing else, I’m going to scream.”

“Cut the banter,” Rinckes says, heralding thirty seconds of tense silence during which the crew shuffle and shift in anticipation.

“We are being hailed,” Surtak reports at last, upping the tension, “via the same channel we sent our message on.”

 _This is it, Stephan_. _The next few minutes might be instrumental in the success of our mission._ “On screen.”

The holographic image of a Starfleet captain in a ready room appears, a balding human male in his early sixties with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and kind yet intelligent eyes. “I am Captain Donovan Sharpe of the Federation starship _Indefatigable_. Please identify yourselves.”

As if he were a Vulcan himself, Rinckes removes all trace of emotion from his voice. “Captain Stephan Rinckes, USS _Achilles_.”

“It really is you. I’m honored,” Sharpe says. “I’m not sure you’re aware, but the _Achilles_ ’ reputation has become quite legendary, perhaps bordering on mythical.”

“No need for modesty,” Rinckes says. “The _Indefatigable_ is a renowned vessel, and you have quite a reputation as well for being an excellent strategist and a popular captain. We’ve met before, on Rigel X. We shared coffee and tall tales.”

A subtle smile. “It was Delta IV, and we drank something a bit stronger than coffee.” Sharpe is correct, of course. “Did I pass the test? I understand. Caution is a virtue, especially when you believe you are out there on your own.”

Rinckes’ breath catches in his chest. _Believe?_

“ _Achilles_ , you are not alone, not anymore. I’m in command of a fleet of seven starships tasked with the same mission as yours: to undo the Altonoids’ hold on the S’Prenn.”

The bridge crew fail to stifle surprised gasps, but Rinckes stays focused. So many questions are going through his mind. He categorizes them in order of relative importance. “How long have you been out here?”

“Six months. The seven of us are currently spread out across nearby sectors. Sorry we didn’t contact you right away. Diligent reconnaissance has kept us occupied. We weren’t even sure you were still alive.”

“We most certainly are. How did you get past the extensive border sensor grid?”

Sharpe leans in on his captive audience. “Our ships are outfitted with the most sophisticated cloaking devices you have ever encountered, a blend of Klingon and Altonoid technology. The Klingon part was a gift, the Altonoid part we acquired through… less legitimate means. We will be more than happy to share this technology with you. It would make your lives considerably easier.”

“No argument there.”

Sharpe’s cheerful disposition yields to seriousness. “How are you holding up? You’ve been at it for years now. It must have been… grueling.”

Rinckes looks at his ragged bridge crew. “You cannot imagine. We have never wavered from our mission, but we have paid the price.” He lowers his gaze. “Thirty-five men and women lost.”

“I am deeply sorry.” Sharpe stares off into the distance. “I don’t know what to say. Losing people under one’s command is a rough deal.” The spark returns to his eyes as he says, “However, you’ve done the Federation a great service, and you will continue to do so with our help. I’ll have my best engineers standing by once we meet.”

“Where do you suggest we do?”

“Our fleet’s combined intel suggests the presence of a S’Prenn anomaly in the Aragos Sector. We believe it to be a portal of sorts, a way of navigating. It is strikingly similar to the anomaly that has formed on Station A-12’s doorstep.”

Rinckes is impressed by the knowledge they accumulated in such a brief period, yet it does trivialize the _Achilles_ ’ accomplishments to a degree. A fleet of seven starships with superior cloaking devices has a distinct advantage during a prolonged stealth mission. He wonders if Sharpe knows about the existence and importance of a cure, an antidote for the Altonoids’ bioweapon. It can wait, though. “We will rendezvous there.”

“It’s settled. Together we will study the portal and effect repairs to your stalwart vessel.” Sharpe adopts an air of confidentiality. “With your cloaking device upgraded, you will finally be able to pass the border. No crew has earned the right to shore leave more than that of the _Achilles_.”

“I agree,” Rinckes says with a nod. “But we have a job to finish, a mission to complete, and a score to settle.”

Though it breaches protocol to interrupt ship-to-ship communication, Tony, Terrell, and Baxter almost simultaneously say, “Hear, hear!” followed by a series of unprofessional cheers and yells so infectious that their colleagues join in.

“You heard them,” Rinckes says, subduing a smile.

“Loud and clear.” Sharpe salutes the bridge crew. “See you in the Aragos Sector. Smooth sailing, fellow seafarers. Sharpe out.”

Stardust against the blackness of space replaces Captain Donovan Sharpe’s image on the main viewer, and silence replaces his reassuring voice. It’s almost as if the conversation never happened. But it did! Rinckes exchanges a glance with Kingsley, then Crow, and knows they’re thinking what he’s thinking: this is a gamechanger.

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ , en route to Aragos – December 21, 2387 – Stardate 64969.9**

Save for the shiny grand piano on stage, the theater is empty and in a shoddy state. Lieutenant Tony Blue considers it an adequate substitute for the many demolished lounges and more inspiring than his quarters. He sits in the front row, studying the PADD he balances in his lap while finishing a Caesar salad, obeying Doctor Kingsley’s mandate to eat healthier—especially before the big day tomorrow. At noon, the _Achilles_ is slated to arrive at its destination: the mysterious portal. They’ve had two weeks to scrutinize the data, and rumors are growing of this portal leading to Station A-12, straight into the heart of the Altonoids’ main research facility.

Tony refuses to commit to such a conclusion, but if this guesswork turns out to be accurate, the best strategy would be to upgrade their cloaking device with the help of Sharpe’s fleet, restore the _Achilles_ to battleworthy condition, and go get that cure with one or all ships. He has already concocted several plans and scenarios ranging from covert operations to full-blown surprise attacks. If the portal leads elsewhere, who knows what valuable new locations or technology they may find. Worst case scenario, if it leads nowhere, studying the portal should at least provide insight into the cure.

After setting his empty plate aside, he immerses himself in the PADD and its information about the brave fleet led by the _Indefatigable_. She is a _Sovereign_ -class starship, a sister ship to the lost _Kennedy_ , on which he served as a Q/human hybrid. That brings back memories, mostly good ones of his former crewmates, but the prevailing one is the sight of her eviscerated secondary hull spewing debris, rotating away from Station A-12 in slowmotion. He and Emily had flown past the darkened hulk when they fled the station in an appropriated shuttle. The _Kennedy_ ’s saucer section had already been blown to dust.

Wallowing in yesteryear is a pointless exercise, so Tony refocuses on the present. Besides Captain Sharpe’s vessel, the fleet consists of two _Defiant_ -class escorts (perfect for cloaking and combat), an _Ambassador_ -class ship (the famous _Zhukov_ , an old but tough heavy cruiser), and three starships representing the _Steamrunner_ , _Luna_ , and _Nebula_ class respectively. Their names and registries checked out; they are confirmed to have reached Klingon space in the wake of the Altonoids’ initial destructive campaign, as are her crew complements.

Tony did the math; the fleet’s presence means 2,600 extra souls have joined their mission, which is both encouraging and admirable. Shelving his humility for a second, he recognizes it takes a special type of person to sign up for the imposing task of crossing into dangerous territory to reclaim Federation worlds against all odds. Hiding behind the Klingon border is a far safer option, yet these people have risked their lives willingly, just as the _Achilles_ ’ crew did five years ago. He’d shake each and everyone’s hand if he—

The grand piano ringing a loud chord nearly launches Tony into the air. He yelps and unholsters his phaser in a reflex. This in turn causes Lieutenant Josh Donahue, who has seated himself at the piano, to scream in shock at the mysterious figure in the front row pulling a phaser on him.

“What are you doing here?!” Tony asks, and he puts away his phaser.

Josh lets out a mighty sigh of relief. “I could ask you the same question.”

"Um… This is where I eat my salad.”

Josh bursts into tremulous laughter. “And this is where I practice piano. Now tell me which one of us shouldn’t be here.”

“Point taken.” Tony picks up his plate and PADD and walks up to the stage. “Had enough of conducting security drills?”

“You just gave me one heck of a surprise drill. My phaser reflexes need work. Flailing my arms in terror isn’t becoming of an acting security chief.”

“Well, I am notorious for my quick draw.” _Just ask the captain_. “I’m guessing this is the first time an audience member threatens you with a weapon?”

“It is, actually.”

“Please take it as constructive criticism.”

“I will.” He starts playing little improvisations, and Tony mounts the stage to listen. “Before coming here, I visited Gibbs in sickbay,” Josh continues. Apparently, he can talk and play piano at the same time. Show-off… “He can’t wait to resume his old job.”

“I heard Sharpe’s fleet has lifted his spirits.”

“Yeah, he is doing much better, mentally. Physically, though, he is not out of the woods yet.”

“It’s usually the other way around.”

Josh’s improvised piece goes from lightweight to melancholic. “I understand why he rejected Kingsley’s offer to fuse half a S’Prenn with his neck. It’d shorten his healing process, sure, but… I don’t care how different such a ‘treatment’ is from being taken over by a living S’Prenn, I wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone.”

“Gibbs made the right call.” Tony’s gaze drifts to the nonexistent audience. “I wonder what Captain Sharpe will think of our sickbay of horrors.”

“Sharpe will condemn it. Shut it down. Rebuild it to conform with Federation principles.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Kingsley will be relieved.”

“Of duty?” Tony asks.

“Not what I meant.”

“We’ll see.”

Josh morphs his impromptu piano piece into a pompously cheerful accompaniment and sings in his best approximation of an opera singer, “Got shot in the back, doctor thought, ‘What the heck, stick a spider on his neck, turn him into a spider snack,’ caught some flack, career out of whack, soon Kingsley will get the sack.”

Despite himself, Tony giggles at the childish yet expertly performed song. “And to think we are Starfleet officers in charge of tactical and security.”

“Should we be worried?”

“You should write all senior officers a song to even things out.”

“Oh, you’re on!”

Tony chuckles. “See you on the bridge tomorrow, Josh.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

As Tony heads for the exit—PADD and empty plate in hand—Josh breaks into another improvised song, a mock dramatic one. “Lieutenant Tony Blue, Lieutenant Donahue, when Sharpe’s fleet appears in view, they’ll have a special song for you.”

* * *

**USS _Achilles_ , Aragos Sector – December 22, 2387 – Stardate 64970.4**

The _Achilles_ ’ cloak deactivating restores the bridge lighting to normal levels. “We have arrived in the Aragos Sector,” Lieutenant Ernest Baxter says with a tinge of excitement. “Portal dead ahead.”

“On screen and magnify,” Captain Stephan Rinckes says, standing in the center of his bridge. Massive and awe-inspiring, a glowing, vertical disc of rippling white light as bright as a star covers the left-hand side of the viewscreen.

“Readings flooding in, sir,” Lieutenant Kels says. “The portal has a diameter of 6.5 kilometers and it is emitting an exorbitant amount of tetryon particles, most of which foreign to us. Energy output is off the charts.”

“Boost power to sensors,” Commander Erin Crow says. “Let’s waste zero time.”

Rinckes wholeheartedly agrees. “Take us closer.”

Once again, the entire senior staff is present for the occasion, including Doctor Chris Kingsley, who is more upbeat than usual and a better representation of his former self. “Don’t forget its biological properties!”

Kels smirks. “I won’t, Doctor.”

To the right, competing with the portal for being the most welcome sight for sore eyes, seven relatively pristine Federation starships face the new arrival in V-formation. Rinckes, and probably the whole crew, could recite their names at the drop of a hat. Leading the pack, the _Indefatigable_ lives up to her name by being a strong and formidable battlecruiser. The _Zhukov_ and _Ironclad_ flank her, the latter of which a compact _Steamrunner_ -class vessel. They in turn are flanked by two large science vessels: the _Luna_ -class _Triton_ and the _Nebula_ -class _Berkeley_ , both equipped with impressive armaments and scientific equipment—powerful additions to a mission like this. The _Alaska_ and _Renegade_ , small _Defiant_ -class ships jampacked with heavy weaponry, guard the tips of the formation.

So much for the hard facts and the demonstration of Sharpe’s wise fleet deployment. Even a pragmatist such as Rinckes has trouble suppressing his relief and—dare he think it?—joy over seeing familiar hull configurations. He casts those distractions aside, as he should. There is much work to be done in concert with these reinforcements.

“Captain, the _Indefatigable_ is hailing us,” Lieutenant Surtak says.

Though vanity is low on his priority list, Rinckes runs a hand through his graying hair and tugs at his jacket. “On screen.”

Whatever detached professionalism the bridge crew maintained vanishes instantly when they’re greeted with a standing ovation from Captain Donovan Sharpe and his senior officers on the _Indefatigable_ ’s spotless bridge. Rinckes channels the deluge of emotions they all experience into a courteous nod at Sharpe, who nods back while applauding, a show of respect from one captain to another.

Sharpe signals for the applause to stop, allowing him to say, “We are honored to have you with us, _Achilles_. Our fellow captains in this fleet express the same sentiment.”

“It is rare for a Starfleet captain to be stumped,” Rinckes says, “but here I am. Here we are.” He shares a brief smile with Lieutenant Tony Blue, then clears his throat. “USS _Achilles_ , reporting for duty. Permission to join your fleet.”

“Do you really have to ask? Permission granted.”

“We are at your command. Baxter, have us join formation.”

“First order of business,” Sharpe says as he returns to his captain’s chair and his people to their stations, “is to investigate the portal and repair the _Achilles_.” The viewscreen’s image starts to distort and stutter. “We will… finest… to ensure… efficiency.”

“What the devil?” Rinckes says, shooting a glance at his chief engineer.

Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell taps away at his engineering station’s interface. “Our comm system is acting up, sir. Nothing major. I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy, but we need to reboot it.”

“…going on?” Sharpe asks.

 _How embarrassing_. “Please stand by,” Rinckes says. “We are experiencing difficulties with our communication system. We need to bring it offline.”

“Thirty seconds at most,” Terrell adds.

“Sorry about this,” Rinckes continues. “We will re-establish contact within a minute.”

“No problem,” Sharpe’s hazy profile says. “It is… be expected after… in enemy territory… a patient bunch.”

On screen, the _Indefatigable_ ’s bridge is replaced by the portal and the seven starships the _Achilles_ is approaching.

“I have pinpointed the problem’s source,” Surtak says, eyebrow arched. He swivels in his chair to face Terrell. “It is you, Commander.”

Terrell gives his captain an apologetic look. “He’s right, sir, but I have a good reason.”

“Out with it!” Rinckes demands.

Flustered, Terrell says, “It is subtle, but it’s there: the presence of an audio overlay and a holographic filter in the _Indefatigable_ ’s video feed.”

“You mean…?”

“We are hearing and seeing what they want us to. There could be a completely innocent explanation for this, or…”

Crow tenses up in her chair. “They are hiding something from us.”

“Please let it be a pimple,” Kingsley says, earning him a nervous chuckle from Tony, who’s manning the tactical station behind the doctor.

“Can you disable the filter?” Rinckes asks.

“Yes, sir,” Terrell says. “I didn’t want to do it mid-communication, hence my deception.”

“Good thinking.” Rinckes cracks his knuckles and loosens up his shoulders. “Disable filter. Hail them on my mark. Stand by cloaking device and warp engines, maximum warp, random escape route—not through the portal. Cloak and warp as soon as I call for red alert. Let’s talk to them first. Maybe it’s nothing, but it is suspicious.” He seeks eye contact with every member of his bridge crew to ensure they understand him. “Whatever we are confronted with, we will not react. That’s an order. You will show no reaction whatsoever. We are happy and relieved to be talking to them, and that changes only on my say-so.”

This has certainly ruined the mood, but everyone hides their apprehension well as they perform their duties.

“Projecting false energy output as soon as we cloak,” Terrell says.

“Weapons and shields standing by in case we have to fight,” Tony says.

“Security teams standing by on all decks,” Lieutenant Josh Donahue says from his security station behind Crow.

“We have assumed formation,” Baxter says. From their current position, the bright portal with its hypnotic ebb and flow takes up the entire viewscreen. “Helm ready for quick retreat and defensive maneuvers.”

Rinckes tidies his uniform and forges a positive attitude. “Surtak, resume communication.”

On screen, the _Indefatigable_ ’s bridge now appears disheveled and dilapidated. Rinckes’ heart sinks into the coldest depths of despair as he sees her crew unfiltered by holographic illusion.

Captain Donovan Sharpe’s face is pale as snow, dilated pupils inhabit his bulging eyes, white fangs frame his mouth, four spider arms protrude from the sides of his jacket, and eight spider legs tremble behind his neck. “Did you solve your technical troubles?” His voice is scratchy and less enunciated with the audio filter disabled.

Rinckes doesn’t flinch and neither do any of his men and women, although it’s as if the ambient temperature has dropped several degrees. He suppresses the urge to scream in anger, curse the Altonoids, curse himself, and declare red alert to escape this obvious trap, but he cannot call their bluff yet. It takes shuttleloads of willpower to refrain from giving his reply double meaning. “Signal is clear. We can pick up where we left off.”

“Excellent,” Sharpe replies, his friendly smile a terrifying sight. Controlled by their arachnid puppet masters, the captain and his crew look emaciated and half-dead. They must have been S’Prenned months ago. “We were about to send medics and engineers to assist you.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Rinckes says, realizing midway that the other six ships must be brimming with S’Prenn and S’Prenned people as well. “Our divisions are preparing for their arrival and will let us know once they’re ready. Meanwhile, let’s recommence studying the portal. There is no time to waste.”

“Our teams are ready for you now, Captain.” Around what remains of Sharpe and his subordinates, individual S’Prenn a foot wide crawl across the floor, ceiling, and bulkheads. “Why wait?”

Rinckes sustains his poker face. “To be frank, it’s been five years since we received guests and we need a little more preparation to smoothen the transition.” He throws in a smidgeon of fake charm. “Simply put, we want to give you a proper welcome.”

Sharpe’s deformed features dampen his subtle change in expression. “Very well. Don’t take too long, though. We’ll be analyzing your vessel in the interim. Sharpe out.”

The instant the transmission ends, Rinckes stomps back to his captain’s chair and falls into it. “That bought us seconds at most.” He rubs his forehead and stares at the anomaly in front of them. “Kels, can you tell us where the damned portal leads?”

The Andorian woman is on the verge of crying. “Negative, sir.”

She isn’t the only brokenhearted person on the bridge. Kingsley sums it up best: “I thought that for once… we had caught a lucky break. That… we weren’t alone.”

“We have each other,” Rinckes says. “I promise you all, we _will_ uncover this portal’s secrets.” He exhales through gritted teeth and springs to his feet. “But not today. Red alert! Engage cloak. Get us out of here, Baxter, maximum warp.”

The lighting dims and red alert panels blink to life as the cloaking device activates, and Baxter maneuvers the _Achilles_ a few degrees starboard to avoid the portal. However, engaging warp drive does not produce an immediate result. “The portal is interfering with our warp field. Attempting to counteract its effects.” The helmsman urgently types strings of commands into his station. “There!” The engines’ hum rises in pitch as they’re about to propel the _Achilles_ to warp speed. Unfortunately, at the first sign of motion, a violent shudder brings the ship to a complete halt.

“Three tractor beams locking on to us!” Tony shouts. “They’re disrupting our cloak!”

A loud warble stings the captain’s eardrums and violent tremors jolt the bridge. “Cloaking device damaged!” Terrell says. “They know exactly where we are.”

“Raise shields,” Rinckes orders. _Damn it, these bastards came prepared!_ “All hands to battle stations!” The tractor beams lose their death grip on the _Achilles_ , which has become too slippery with shields up to maintain an effective lock. “Baxter, try again.”

“No good, Captain. Primary and secondary warp engines are momentarily out of kilter after that failed warp attempt.”

Rinckes wants to order Terrell to fix it right away, somewhat redundantly, but the reappearance of Sharpe on the viewscreen prevents that.

“Where are you going?” The disfigured shell of a man chuckles. “You want to spend another five years sneaking around?”

Rinckes ignores him. “Ahead full impulse!” The _Achilles_ lunges forward and breaks formation.

“You’ve raised shields. How long do you think you’ll last against seven starships?”

“The _Triton_ and _Berkeley_ are sending out continuous nadion pulses,” Kels says, “which exacerbates the portal’s influence. Our warp field keeps collapsing.”

“Full power to aft shields,” Rinckes says. “Target their deflectors and fire.”

Hesitant but compliant, Tony fires a full spread of quantum torpedoes at the Starfleet vessels, wrong as it may seem.

“We do not take kindly to your firing on us,” Sharpe says.

Rinckes’ nails bite into his palms. “Get that thing off my screen.” Sharpe and his ghoulish crew make way for seven starships, five of which sending out tractor beams that glide across the _Achilles_ ’ shields, and two of which firing a steady stream of nadion particles from their deflector dishes. “Terrell, notify me when the cloaking device is operational again but prioritize fixing the warp engines. Blue, can you lower their shields using their prefix codes?”

Tony gives it a try. “Negative, sir. They must have changed it like we did before entering enemy territory.” He refocuses on wielding the _Achilles_ ’ weaponry. At his behest, another volley of quantum torpedoes bursts through the _Berkeley_ ’s forward shields. One more should do the trick, and then they will have to—

The fleet lets loose phaser beams and torpedoes, unleashing thunderous destruction on the _Achilles_ ’ shields and stern. The ship quakes as if shaken by the gods. “Defensive maneuvers!” Rinckes yells.

“Aft shields are down!” Tony says. “They’re targeting our shield generator and warp drive.” Already, one of the tractor beams is threatening to gain foothold on the _Achilles_ ’ naked hull.

“Baxter, pull up, heading 235 mark 045. Blue, destroy the _Berkeley_ ’s deflector. You have permission to deplete dorsal phasers and microtorpedoes if required.”

The fleet continues their barrage, favoring sheer firepower over mobility, and the _Achilles_ maneuvers her stern out of their weapons’ path, lines up her dorsal section, and concentrates all phaser fire and blankets of quantum microtorpedoes on the _Berkeley_. With forward shields drained, the _Berkeley_ ’s deflector is defenseless against this unabating violence; bright-red explosions reduce it to a useless disk of blackened remnants and leave the _Berkeley_ listing at an unnatural angle.

One nadion pulse to disable before they can retry the warp drive. “Status of warp engines,” Rinckes says.

“Secondary engines good to go in five seconds,” Terrell replies.

“Dorsal shields failing!” Tony shouts as rupturing overhead conduits spark and smoke.

“Damage reports are coming in from all decks,” Surtak says.

The _Achilles_ ’ hull creaks like an old galleon, a sound the captain has never heard her make before. “Face the fleet and maintain full impulse. Present minimal aspect. Divert power to forward shields. Alpha Strike the _Triton_ ’s deflector.”

 _Achilles_ sics her phaser arrays, pulse phaser cannons, and quantum torpedo launchers on her target while rushing toward the _Triton_. This also brings them closer to the fleet and their overwhelming strength. Worse still, the two flanking _Defiant_ -class escorts break formation and initiate parallel attack runs on the _Achilles_ ’ weakened dorsal section.

“Brace yourselves!” Rinckes warns. “Repel them with microtorpedoes!”

The _Achilles_ ’ bow is taking one hell of a beating as it is, yet her tired phaser cannons and dorsal torpedo launchers do their jobs undeterred, as if they sense what’s at stake. Three quantum torpedoes finish off the _Triton_ ’s weakened shields just as the side-by-side _Alaska_ and _Renegade_ dive-bomb the _Achilles_. Scores of microtorpedoes rip through the escorts’ shields but cannot prevent their phaser pulses from tearing through the _Achilles_ ’ armor and instigating ship-rocking explosions. In retaliation, a batch of microtorpedoes cripples the _Renegade_ and sends her tumbling end over end in a cloud of smoke and debris.

“Hull breaches reported along our ship’s spine,” Terrell says, smoldering rubble fragments clinging to his uniform. “Forward shields are failing.”

“Press on!” Rinckes shouts. “Baxter, as soon as we destroy the deflector, go to high warp.”

“ _Alaska_ is coming about for another strafing run,” Tony says.

“Initiate corkscrew maneuver.” By having the _Achilles_ rotate along her longitudinal axis, Rinckes hopes to keep damaged areas out of reach, though he admits to himself it is a tactic born of desperation. Yes, it protects the ship’s weak spots, but it also allows her shields and armor to be pummeled from multiple directions, rattling the worn vessel, gashing her scarred hull plating. On the viewscreen’s tilting image, the _Zhukov_ and _Ironclad_ close ranks to protect the _Triton_ , absorbing hits meant for the science vessel while leaving enough room for the nadion pulse to affect the _Achilles_.

As the net tightens, Rinckes remembers his nightmare. _You will be with us soon._ Were they speaking of today? Has the weight of his sins culminated in a demise this inglorious? If he fails his people once again, he will have nearly four hundred extra deaths on his conscience. What kind of man does that make him?

“Captain. Captain!” Crow says, breaking his spell. “What do we do?”

The _Indefatigable_ rises above her colleague ships and reactivates her tractor beam to grasp the _Achilles_ ’ unshielded bow, decreasing the battered vessel’s speed to curtail her defensive maneuvers. The inevitable attack run from the _Alaska_ knocks out the _Achilles_ ’ primary impulse engines with a deafening blast, and she comes to a complete standstill in the tractor beam’s grip, sending her crew flying due to the immense deceleration. Rinckes holds out his arms to soften his landing, but he is too late to avoid smashing against Surtak’s ops console. In an instant, the captain’s whole world goes black.

Flashes of light in Rinckes’ vision confirm he hasn’t lost consciousness. Disoriented by darkness and muffled shouting coming from all around him, he digs his fingernails into the carpet to ground himself and regain his bearings. He ignores the pain and shock of what felt like undergoing an interstellar collision and gets to his feet, right next to Baxter and Surtak, who have held on to their stations but look worse for wear. “Switch to secondary engines! Target tractor beam and fire!”

“Secondary engines unable to compensate,” he hears Terrell say. “Emergency battery power is dwindling. Hull integrity down to 41 percent. Shields are fried.”

Resembling a weakened prey attempting to bite its killer one last time, the _Achilles_ spews out a final volley of quantum torpedoes, which dissipates in the _Indefatigable_ ’s forward shields, rocking her but not affecting her unremitting tractor beam. The _Alaska_ rejoins formation while the _Zhukov_ and _Ironclad_ incapacitate the _Achilles_ ’ phaser arrays, cannons, and torpedo launchers with precision strikes, denying her the ability to defend herself.

Tony slams a fist on his tactical station’s now useless interface. “Weapons offline.”

A torrent of sparks surrounds Terrell. “They’re disabling our transporter systems too.”

“They don’t want us going anywhere,” Kingsley says.

Rinckes looks at his horribly ravaged bridge. His disheartened crew continues their work despite the imminence of defeat. It is a miracle they have made it this far against these odds, a notion extending beyond this one-sided battle, although he’d be remiss not to swap the term miracle for dedication and skill. Nevertheless, they are trapped like a struggling insect in a web and there is no-one to bail them out.

“The _Indefatigable_ is hailing us,” Surtak reports, sounding remarkably dejected for a Vulcan.

Dreadful as it may be, this unfair test of their resolve goes on, so Rinckes straightens his spine and returns to his chair. He seeks eye contact with Crow and starts typing commands into his armrest’s display. “On screen.”

The main viewer is one of the few remaining functional onboard systems. The _Indefatigable_ ’s terrifying bridge and her mutated captain appear on it once again. “I don’t understand why you’d fight us,” Sharpe says. “Perhaps your mission has been more traumatic than we realized. Although you’ve severely damaged the _Berkeley_ and _Renegade_ , I am sure their captains will forgive you in time, as we do now. We welcome you back into the fold. Let us heal your wounds.”

“Your acting skills are impressive, whatever your name is,” Rinckes says, “but you are not the only puppeteer at play here. The Altonoids are pulling your strings the same way you are controlling Captain Sharpe.”

Sharpe drops the pretense of camaraderie. “You could not possibly comprehend how the Altonoids have opened our eyes and given us meaning in this universe. As for my acting skills, humans are easily duped. It is hardly a challenge.”

“We have accrued mountains of evidence of the Altonoids’ horrible experiments in mind control on your kind.” Reasoning with an indoctrinated S’Prenn is a long shot, but Rinckes has to try. “The Altonoids have constructed a bioweapon to safeguard their total dominion. You have been victimized as well. Our mission is to cure the S’Prenn, to cure you, and have you regain autonomy.”

“We are aware of your flawed motives created by misguided fear. You thought you were always one step ahead, but we were on your trail, and by ‘we’ I mean the combined forces of the best that Altonoids and S’Prenn have to offer. It is how we extrapolated your next destination: this portal. It is how we set this trap. You put up a good fight, _Achilles_ , almost as good as the crews of these vessels we seized attempting to cross our border.” Sharpe chuckles, a different laugh than when he was in character—no friendliness, no malice either. “They were sent to assist you, believed their improved cloaking devices were sufficient.”

“Do you care so little for us? Do you care nothing for your species’ plight?”

“I have no choice in the matter. I must obey my directives as ordained.” A solemn pause. “For what it is worth, my host has never ceased resisting my control, doubly so since we have contacted you. He is an extraordinarily strong-willed, principled humanoid, yet no match for my biological and intellectual superiority. Despite his powerlessness, he is deeply remorseful about the current state of affairs. Many of my brothers and sisters report similar sensations from their hosts.”

Rinckes shares a mournful glance with Kingsley before saying, “Donovan, if part of you can hear me… You tried to come to our aid and for that we are grateful, regardless of how it turned out.”

Sharpe recomposes himself. “Sentimentalities aside, my Altonoid masters will be pleased I have captured your vessel. You have been a thorn in their side for far too long.”

“And what reward will they give you?”

Hesitation flickers across Sharpe’s malformed face. “None.”

Having wrongfooted his conversation partner, Rinckes goes for the kill. “They will keep oppressing you. Do you think they’ll permit you to separate from Captain Sharpe anytime soon? You are as tied to him as he is to you, both slaves to the ruthless Altonoids’ will as they continue to slaughter your kin—men, women, children alike.”

Sharpe offers no reply.

“All the while you’re trapped controlling a human body that’s degenerating into the likeness of a corpse and stuck with an utterly miserable human mind that’s resisting your every thought each and every second, day after day. How terrible you must be feeling. Believe in the Altonoids’ benevolence all you want, your situation is hopeless.”

The gaunt captain shifts his gaze in lieu of responding.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. Please help us liberate you. Tell us where the portal leads.”

“We have nothing further to discuss. You will understand soon. Fear not, you will continue to serve on your vessel as hosts for my fellow S’Prenn. Not everything we told you was a lie. We will repair the _Achilles_ ; you will make a fine addition to the magnificent Altonoid fleet.”

Rinckes hardens his stare. “Like hell we will.” He makes a cutting gesture across his neck and Surtak closes the channel. In a futile, last-ditch bid for redemption, Rinckes considers the alternatives to the orders he is about to issue and concludes there aren’t any viable ones. Heaving a weighty sigh, he presses the intercom button. “All hands, this is the captain. My first officer and I have set off preliminary intruder alerts throughout the ship and primed the auto-destruct.”

Nobody on the bridge moves a muscle as they listen to his devastating announcement.

“Arm yourselves, phasers set to kill. Do not hesitate to fire on S’Prenned crewmembers; they cannot be freed unless their S’Prenn does so willingly.” A brief silence as professionalism battles his reluctance to destroy what he vowed to protect. “Computer, begin auto-destruct sequence, authorization Rinckes 1-7 Delta Epsilon.” He nods at his first officer.

“Computer, Commander Erin Crow. Confirm auto-destruct sequence, authorization Crow 1-8 Gamma Charlie.”

The captain wishes this were a nightmare, but the stars that used to soothe him affirm there is no waking from reality. “This is Captain Stephan Rinckes. Destruct sequence Alpha-One. Fifteen minutes, silent countdown. Enable.”

A warning claxon sounds and the ship’s computer declares, “ _Auto-destruct sequence initiated. Warp core overload in fifteen minutes. There will be no further audio warnings_.”

“All hands, abandon ship. I repeat, all hands, abandon ship. Make for the shuttles and escape pods. If you think you cannot outrun the fleet, you may go through the portal at your discretion.”

Cobalt swirls of light indicative of Federation transporters materialize the first S’Prenn on the floor, bulkheads, stations, ceiling—a dozen of them at least.

Like his bridge officers, Rinckes unholsters his handphaser. “I don’t know what’s beyond the portal.” Phaser fire erupts and he rises from his chair to join his crew’s final stand. “But this is our last chance to find out.” A S’Prenn leaps up at him, quivering legs fully extended, and Crow shoots it in midair, allowing the captain to sign off. “Godspeed, everyone. It’s been an honor serving with you. Rinckes out.”

Crow and Kingsley stand by his side to defend their captain, shooting S’Prenn left and right while he fires at a S’Prenn crawling toward Baxter’s ankle. The spider screeches as it dies and Rinckes blocks out the harsh fact that these creatures are sentient beings under enemy control, unwilling participants in a cruel war.

Despite his evacuation order, none of the bridge crewmembers show an inclination to leave their posts. Like the captain, they have difficulty accepting how their mission has come to an abrupt end.

* * *

Lieutenant Tony Blue is picking off creeping and jumping S’Prenn wherever he sees them, relying on survival instinct and his vision’s acuity for movement, but his accurate and fast aim is insufficient to ward off waves of S’Prenn beaming onto the damaged bridge.

“On your feet!” Rinckes shouts, backing toward the aft turbolift with Crow and Kingsley. “We’re done here! You deserve far better, but we have to make our escape!”

To Tony’s left, Kels guides four junior officers into an alcove leading to escape pods. Baxter tears himself away from his helm station to provide covering fire, ensuring their retreat will not be hampered by the countless invaders. Unfortunately, the officers return seconds later, chased by a group of S’Prenn scuttling over carpet and bulkheads.

“If you are able,” Rinckes continues, “follow me to shuttle bay 4!”

Those not yet on their feet get up, with the exception of Surtak, who makes zero effort to do so. Facing the viewscreen, he is twitching in his seat as a S’Prenn burrows its fangs into his brainstem.

“Shuttles present better tactical options than escape pods,” Crow says. The pandemonium of phaser fire renders what she says next inaudible.

Baxter and Tony fire at the stream of S’Prenn pouring out of the alcove, while Kels—being the sweetheart she is—helps the junior officers. That is until one of them, a male ensign, grabs her by the throat and pushes her against the bulkhead near the helm station. Lit by blinking red alert panels, eight spider legs are sticking out from the ensign’s neck.

From across the bridge, Josh Donahue fires his phaser at the ensign, killing the poor soul instantly and freeing Kels from a merciless chokehold. Baxter rushes toward Kels to tug her away from the spider-infested bulkhead, causing Tony to step up his game and fire at the surrounding S’Prenn.

A desperate scream distracts him. “No! Please!” It’s Josh. A S’Prenn has latched itself onto his neck, from Tony’s perspective visible as fluttering spider leg shadows on the flashing red displays behind the acting security chief. “Tony! Help!” Contorting and gagging, Josh struggles against the arachnid seizing his mind. “Please shoot!”

What can he do? Tony raises his handphaser at his friend, temporarily forgoing his personal safety, unsure if he possesses the courage to honor Josh’s request.

“No!” Baxter yells from his left. For a split second, Tony thinks Baxter wants to prevent him from firing, but then he catches a glimpse of Kels twitching and convulsing in the chief helmsman’s arms. Baxter is too distraught to notice the two S’Prenn crawling up his legs, racing each other for ownership of his body.

“Baxter, watch out!” Tony yells, aiming his phaser at the S’Prenn duo, realizing he can’t fire from this angle without seriously injuring or killing Baxter. His senses heightened by adrenaline, he feels something crawling up his own legs as well. In a moment of indecision, he alternates between aiming at Baxter, Josh, and the growing number of S’Prenn. From near the vacant captain’s chair, a S’Prenned officer exposes dripping fangs and growls at him.

He cannot protect them anymore.

Tony spins around, patting his legs and torso like a man on fire, until he clutches the warm exoskeleton of the S’Prenn climbing to his neck, its scaly femurs squirming against his fingers. It made it as far as his shoulder blades. With all his might, he flings the screeching creature toward the viewscreen, where it disappears in holographic depictions of hijacked Federation starships.

Tony fires at groups of S’Prenn dropping from the ceiling, kicks the ones on the ground reaching for his pant legs, and dashes for the aft turbolift to join Rinckes, Crow, and Kingsley. He is about to cross the lift’s threshold when a strong arm grabs him by the collar. It’s Surtak, or rather, it was. Now, the S’Prenn on his neck is calling the shots.

The pale ops officer twists the phaser out of Tony’s hand and speaks through thick fangs while another S’Prenn scales the Vulcan’s chest. “Your mind holds many secrets.” The second S’Prenn creeps over Surtak’s arm and homes in on Tony’s neck. “We have never controlled a former Q before.”

“You never will!” Jon Terrell shouts, tackling Surtak with a full-speed shoulder charge, sending himself, the Vulcan, and the second S’Prenn rolling over the floor.

Tony intends to dart to the heroic chief engineer’s rescue, but someone thwarts his plan by wrapping an arm around his waist and yanking him backward, into the turbolift. It wouldn’t have mattered; Surtak pins Terrell down for a S’Prenn to leap off the carpet and onto his neck. Terrell yells in pain as the S’Prenn bites him. Terrified, he looks at Tony and pleads, “Go! Go!” before he is reduced to gargling and thrashing.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” is all Tony can say while Crow pulls him to the back turbolift wall.

The holographic _Indefatigable_ presides over a dark bridge teeming with S’Prenn that are steadily approaching the turbolift. There is no-one left on deck to conquer. Those commandeered by the S’Prenn join their advance, spider arms bursting from their sides, eyes black as coals. Shuddering like a defective automaton, Terrell rises from the floor as his puppeteer acquaints itself with controlling its new host.

“Shuttle bay 4, emergency close doors,” Rinckes says.

As the doors slide shut and the lift prepares to transport its four occupants, Tony catches one last glimpse of the horrendous scene unfolding in front of him. Kels and Baxter work together once more, under enemy coercion, ripping open the Jefferies tube hatch behind the captain’s chair to pursue the turbolift. Josh Donahue, looking exactly like he did in the S’Prenn wreckage, stares at Tony with soulless pupils.

The doors have closed to separate them from the madness, and the lift descends into the bowels of the ship. Crow embraces Tony in a mutual attempt to console the inconsolable, a break in professionalism he considers perfectly understandable; at a time like this, they are humans first, officers second. Rinckes and Kingsley keep silent, for they may be relatively safe now, one undeniable truth remains: the S’Prenn know where they are going.


	7. Chapter VI

Captain Stephan Rinckes is lost in thought, figuring out how to get as many members of his crew as possible to survive. For now, he’ll have to focus on keeping the three officers riding the turbolift with him safe. “Discard your combadges”—he plucks his combadge from his jacket and tosses it to the floor—“so they can’t track us once we’ve left the turbolift.” The others do as he says.

Commander Erin Crow and Lieutenant Tony Blue stand side-by-side, shoulders touching for the smidgeon of comfort it brings. “We should switch turbolifts at the earliest opportunity,” Crow says.

Doctor Chris Kingsley leans against the wall and looks at Rinckes and Crow. “You two are the only ones with the authority to cancel the auto-destruct sequence. The S’Prenn will stop at nothing to control you.”

“The sooner we get to shuttle bay 4, the better,” Rinckes says, operating the turbolift LCARS display, which shows a cutaway diagram of the _Achilles_. “We’ll switch lifts on deck 5, section 14.” From the corner of his vision, he sees Tony has grabbed a tricorder. The lieutenant is typing into it while frowning. On the rear of the tricorder, a small depression houses an emergency transport unit. “Could that transport me and Erin to shuttle bay 4?”

“Yes, sir,” Tony says, “though configuring one of these is a bit of a—”

With an ear-piercing screech, the turbolift grates to a halt, a maneuver so rough its four occupants hit the deck. Rinckes bangs his head against Kingsley’s knee but is up in an instant. For a second he fears the incident has blinded him, but the lift has simply gone dark, its power cut. “Everyone all right?”

A vertical strip of light two meters high starting half a meter above the floor draws their attention. Pallid fingertips slip through from top to bottom, prying the turbolift doors open inch by inch.

“Phasers!” Rinckes shouts. He and his underlings back up against the lift’s wall to keep as much distance between them and the wriggling fingers. Rinckes presses the fire button on his phaser and shoots the first pair of hands, causing them to retract from the doorway. At least the S’Prenn experience pain via their host, which serves them right. Another pair of hands appears without delay. There must be a horde of S’Prenned crewmembers behind the door, and they have the distinct advantage of holding the high ground.

Kingsley and Crow assist Rinckes by firing at the slowly widening gap through which dilated pupils and foaming mouths grow visible.

“Surrender,” one of the taken—a young woman—growls. “Do not postpone the inevitable or we will tear Blue and Kingsley to shreds.”

To hear the S’Prenn speaking these vile words through the disfigured officer disturbs Rinckes to the core. In a violent act of mercy, he kills her and her puppeteer with a well-aimed shot. Even though he has no alternative, shooting his own crew goes against everything he stands for as a starship captain. How he wishes he were on the bridge, leading his faithful subordinates, instead of being trapped like a rabbit in its hole with predators digging their way in.

“S’Prenn incoming!” Crow shouts, adjusting her aim at the foot-wide arachnids scrabbling through the gap to tumble into the lift or sneak up the door slabs.

“Concentrate on the S’Prenn,” Rinckes says. “I’ll handle the S’Prenned.” If anyone should carry the burden of harming former shipmates, it should be their captain.

Despite Kingsley and Crow’s incessant firing and Tony’s valiant attempts to stomp any S’Prenn within range, the trickle of S’Prenn crawling in swells to a wave. With a decisive thud, the S’Prenned men and women open the turbolift doors fully. Two of them die by their captain’s hand in a single sweeping phaser hit. It’s hard to make a proper estimate from this low angle, but Rinckes guesses there are at least ten of them in the corridor. Two S’Prenned security officers jump into the turbolift together, arachnid and humanoid arms extended. Rinckes manages to shoot the first, who slumps to the stained carpet upon hitting the floor, eliciting a scream from Tony, before the second grabs the captain’s wrists.

“You will join us,” the mutated officer says, saliva dripping from his fangs. He pins Rinckes against the wall, which is alive and moving with spider legs. “You will be our captain again.”

With his wrists held above his head, his handphaser aimed at the ceiling, S’Prenn scratching at his back, and moments from being taken over by a heartless creature that will subdue his will and identity to serve the Altonoids, Rinckes stares into the ghostly face of a man who would’ve given his life to protect his captain. That man is still in there somewhere, struggling in vain against his S’Prenn master. The security officer’s blanched complexion, opaque eyes, and protruding fangs notwithstanding, the captain discerns subtle Coridan peculiarities around the mouth and eyebrows. “Ensign Munroz,” Rinckes says.

A hint of recognition crosses Munroz’s features.

“You did all you could, Ensign.”

Rinckes flips the phaser so it lies flat in the palm of his hand, points it at Munroz’s scalp from above, and presses the trigger button with his ring finger. Munroz dies in a flash of light, freeing Rinckes just as two S’Prenn clamber onto his shoulders. The arthropod duo raise their palps at each other, presumably to battle over who gets to control the _Achilles_ ’ captain. Competing for dominance, they creep toward Rinckes’ neck.

While bright phaser beams shine in from the corridor, Rinckes slams himself backward into the wall to rid him of these clingy arachnids, to no avail. S’Prenn are persistent.

Tony, also the persistent type, clutches the two S’Prenn with his bare hands, rolls them into a ball, and dropkicks them out through the open doorway. He follows up with a yell that’s part annoyed huff, part war cry. “I’m so fed up with them!” S’Prenn blood covers his face, sleeves, and pant legs.

Before Rinckes can express his gratitude, a mildly surprised blonde woman appears in the doorway. “I’m not fond of them either,” she says, her phaser rifle’s barrel fuming from activity. “Ensign Marian Horsch reporting, sir. Corridor is clear.”

The same cannot be said of the turbolift they’re in; its deck is lined with S’Prenn—half of them dead. Rinckes lets Horsch pull his senior officers into the corridor and protects them by firing at everything that moves on the walls and floor.

The ensign hoists her captain out last. S’Prenned officers are lying everywhere, narrowing the hallway, filling it with a burning stink. Most of them were shot by Horsch and her three fellow officers, who are currently firing into the turbolift to ensure nothing follows them out. Horsch, in her mid-twenties and built like a gymnast, is the only security officer of the bunch; her colleagues—two men and one woman—wear science division uniforms and carry their phaser rifles with less confidence than their de facto leader. 

“This way to the escape pods, sir,” she says.

Rinckes collects a phaser rifle from a dead officer and passes it to Tony. There should be a weapons locker nearby for them to upgrade from handphasers to rifles. A wise precaution, because he wonders how long it will take for the S’Prenned to risk returning fire. “Thank you, Ensign Horsch, but we’re going elsewhere.”

“S’Prenned bridge officers have made it no secret you’re going to shuttle bay 4. It’s on every wall panel. I strongly recommend you come with us or at the very least choose a different shuttle bay.”

“Not happening.” He opts to keep the reasons for this particular shuttle bay’s importance secret. All it takes is a S’Prenn accessing one of his confidants’ memories and his strategy becomes common knowledge. He learned that the hard way when he told the bridge crew which shuttle bay they should meet up in. “Computer, recognize voice pattern Stephan Rinckes. How much time until auto-destruct?”

“ _Ten minutes and thirteen seconds_.”

Crow exhales through her teeth. “We’ll never make it scurrying through Jefferies tubes.”

“We’ll have to chance riding another turbolift,” Rinckes says. Based on his familiarity with this deck, he determines which lift will get them there quickest. Provided they can get there fast enough, he is willing to share this information with the group. “The one in section 7 should suffice. Agreed?”

“Oh, please,” Kingsley says. “I’m done with turbolifts for today.”

“It’s our only shot,” Crow says.

“Fine…”

Horsch scratches her chin, smearing it with S’Prenn blood. “At least let us escort you there.”

“Negative,” Rinckes says. He sets off, signaling his senior officers to do the same. “Your orders are to evacuate. Head to the closest shuttle bay if you think it will increase your odds.”

“With respect, we’re with you, Captain.” Horsch and her team catch up with them. “It’s the least we can do.”

Rinckes pauses to remind her of the chain of command’s application in crisis situations. However, after staring the four junior officers in the eyes and seeing their determination and allegiance, undeserved as they may be, he nods his approval. “Double file. Take point, Ensign.”

Horsch nods back, telling him in one look she accepts that her gesture of loyalty may have sealed her and her team’s fate. They may not be able to change the hell they’re in, but they will tread fire and brave the flames to serve their captain once more.

* * *

Lieutenant Tony Blue and Ensign Marian Horsch lead their group into the fourth consecutive corridor filled with S’Prenn and S’Prenned. Directly behind them, Captain Rinckes and Commander Crow provide covering fire with the phaser rifles they procured. Also armed to the teeth, Doctor Kingsley and the three science officers cover the rear. This ship will soon blow itself to dust, so they are purposefully running toward danger while letting loose with their phaser rifles.

“Two lefts and two rights and we’re at turbolift 7-K,” Horsch says. Tony is sure nobody but him heard her in the din of combat.

“Press on!” Rinckes shouts. Moments ago, the captain had instructed the ship’s computer to raise lighting levels, hoping to thwart the S’Prenn by using their photosensitive skin against them, even though the interior lighting is in subpar condition throughout the ship, but the abominations residing on the bridge had had the foresight to lock out voice commands on such systems. And so, the hallways are poorly lit as usual. This renders intersections a challenge because they have the tendency to conceal threats until they’re on top of you. There are few crewmembers remaining who haven’t escaped or succumbed to a S’Prenn yet, and when they spot their captain being rushed past, they take it upon themselves to assist in expediting his journey and defending him from their positions.

These acts of support are becoming rare, and Tony is on the verge of instinctively shooting anyone wearing a Starfleet uniform, because most of them belong to S’Prenned individuals. He and Ensign Horsch clear a path by firing on sight at every enemy approaching over the carpet, bulkheads, and ceiling. Hitting their targets while running is quite demanding, so Tony mainly sticks to the left while Horsch handles the right. S’Prenn or S’Prenned who make it past their line of fire have to be picked off by the captain and the XO. It’s not ideal, but it’s effective for now. That is, until screaming erupts from the officers bringing up the rear. “Man down!” Kingsley shouts.

Tony sneaks a peek over his shoulder. A growing number of S’Prenned are after them, oblivious to how many they have to sacrifice to a tactic this insane, banking on the difficulties of their preys having to shoot in the direction they’re fleeing from. A quick headcount proves the home team is one officer short.

Refocused on the hallway ahead, Tony espies a S’Prenned woman clumsily taking aim with a phaser rifle. She hesitates, unwilling to hit the captain or the first officer. Doing so would ensure the _Achilles_ ’ destruction. Before she can reconsider, Tony ends her existence, repressing a pang of guilt over having to take two lives at once: that of a former colleague, and that of the S’Prenn controlling her. Both are victims to mind control in one way or another.

Behind them, horrific screaming indicates the loss of a second member of their team, sounding increasingly distant as the group pushes forward. “Dammit!” Kingsley says. “How much farther?”

“Not much!” Horsch replies.

Survival instinct prompts Tony to cast another look over his shoulder, in time to see two S’Prenned men leap from the darkness and tackle the science officer beside Kingsley to the ground. The young woman shrieks and reaches out for the running officers, who have no choice but to abandon her because the other S’Prenned are gaining on them.

Horsch signals the group into a right turn. As they swing around the corner, three S’Prenn jump out at them. One is too close to shoot, so Tony dives away in a reflex, and the spider soars past his head. Just as he wonders if Rinckes, Crow, and Kingsley can deal with the airborne S’Prenn, he notices many doors in this stretch of hallway have opened for S’Prenned to come stumbling out, forcing the group to slow down to eliminate these new targets.

“Hurry up, people!” Kingsley says, firing wildly at their pursuers.

“You don’t have to remind us.” Tony does his utmost to maintain a steady pace, but the complication of moving past rooms with opened doors has made clearing a path more taxing. He glances into the first room on the left.

Rinckes shoves him forward. “We can’t afford the delay, Lieutenant.”

“I know, but how else can I—”

Horsch screams as a S’Prenned technician emerges from the opposite room. She attempts to point her rifle at him, but he strikes her in the temple with a hyperspanner, knocking her out cold. As soon as she hits the deck, the merciless technician plants a foot in the small of her back to guard her until a S’Prenn accepts her as its new host.

Crow takes aim to shoot the man, but Kingsley drags her along. If he hadn’t, one of their chasers would’ve grasped her by the collar.

With Horsch out of the picture, Rinckes takes her place by Tony’s side. “Crow, Kingsley, forget about our six. All eyes forward!”

Phaser blasts from their four rifles zoom ahead to neutralize S’Prenn after S’Prenn, damaging the corridor even further. Wall panels explode, dangling light fixtures go dark, fresh char stains besmudge carpet and bulkheads. Tony’s mind goes blank as he loses himself in battle, selecting and subduing targets in an increasingly trancelike state—a blessing, considering the mayhem that surrounds him. His training kicks in to protect his psyche and adrenaline takes care of the rest. Despite Horsch’s fate, he forgoes checking every room he passes, feeling as if he is on rails, progressing through a holodeck shooting range, improving his score with each successful phaser hit.

Not knowing how he got there, Tony makes it to the final intersection along with his companions. “To the right!” he hears himself shout.

Only then does he see the S’Prenn crawling over Rinckes’ spine to his neck. Crow is behind the captain and raises her rifle before dismissing the idea to shoot at it. Instead, she squeezes her digits around the S’Prenn and tries to throw it away in mid-run. The S’Prenn thrashes its spider legs and bites her fingers. Startled, she lets go of it, allowing the furious arachnid to latch onto her face!

Where Tony and Rinckes take the required right turn, Crow goes straight ahead, desperately clawing at the S’Prenn attacking her. Kingsley trails her, trying to free her from the S’Prenn, which is coiling its legs around her neck to twist its scaly body closer to her brain. In her panic, she collides with the doctor, causing them both to lose their balance and sending them tumbling. Broken from his trance, Tony is once again inclined to slow down and assist.

Rinckes prevents this with a simple command: “No going back!” He’s right. The S’Prenned officers have followed Crow and Kingsley into the wrong corridor. This tragic diversion may have saved his and the captain’s lives. Sad as it may be, their singular objective remains: to reach turbolift 7-K and ultimately shuttle bay 4.

Tony has always been reasonably adept at estimating the passage of time—an instinct that stays intact during combat. How many minutes do they have left until the _Achilles_ vaporizes in a matter/antimatter explosion? Tony settles for seven at most.

* * *

There is the turbolift entrance. The promise of temporary refuge lures Tony and Rinckes closer. Tony is so focused on their destination and shooting the few scattered S’Prenn in their path that the click of an opening maintenance hatch barely registers with him. He is about to trigger the lift’s proximity sensors when Rinckes trips to the floor, firing blindly.

Behind them, an alien yet familiar voice asks, “Remember us, Captain?”

Tony pivots around and aims his rifle at Lieutenant Kels. Having grabbed the captain’s legs, she crawls on top of him, intending to pin him down as he lies prone on the floor. Her blue skin is discolored; her S’Prenn puppeteer’s eight spider legs complement her two antennae.

Something moves at the edge of Tony’s vision. When he spots its source, he draws in a rasping breath and watches aghast. Clinging to the ceiling upside down, Lieutenant Ernest Baxter looks through Tony with coal-black eyes and releases at least three of the six S’Prenn attached to his torso. There’s no sign of the helmsman’s benevolent personality or the friendship he and Tony shared. Locked up inside their minds by indoctrinated S’Prenn, Kels and Baxter must be horrified to be unwilling instruments of Tony and Rinckes’ potential demise, but they are lethal instruments nonetheless.

As Tony lowers his rifle to point its muzzle at the triad of S’Prenn creeping up on his struggling captain, Baxter’s tilted stare turns vicious. Tony shoots two of the phobia-inducing creatures as quickly as he can. A third one has already made it to Rinckes’ ear. The three other S’Prenn detach themselves from Baxter’s chest and land on the carpet.

The captain wriggles an arm loose and elbows Kels in the face, causing Tony to wince even though Rinckes has every right to defend himself. Blue blood streaming from her nose and onto her fangs, Kels hisses in anger while Tony takes out three S’Prenn scuttling dangerously close to the captain’s head. Rinckes repeatedly bashes Kels in the nose in an attempt to liberate himself. Even a regular Andorian would have called it quits by now, but her S’Prenn captor forces her to endure the beating and keep the captain in place.

Once Tony has shot the last S’Prenn, Kels changes tactics. She swings an arm around the captain’s throat and tightens her grip, then swivels her head to allow her S’Prenn to switch hosts. Its fangs’ intricate wiring retracts from her brainstem and reaches tentatively for the captain’s skin. Meanwhile, Baxter is inching toward Tony and getting ready to pounce.

Hesitation is not an option; to perform this precision shot, Tony lifts his rifle to peer through its scope at the S’Prenn preparing to seize the captain, holds his breath, and squeezes the trigger. The phaser blast strikes the S’Prenn dead center and smashes through its rigid carapace, which offers no protection whatsoever for poor Kels. The phaser blast strikes her in the neck and she goes limp in an instant.

An awful knot twists his stomach as Tony realizes what he has done, but he is given no chance to regret or mourn his snap decision, because Baxter jumps down from the ceiling and knocks the rifle out of his hands. Rinckes is still on the floor, reeling from his scuffle with Kels, and Tony is too shocked to react sensibly and ward off Baxter’s attack. Now that he bears responsibility for Kels’ death, how could he harm another of his dearest friends?

The mutated helmsman slams Tony against a bulkhead and presses his thumbs against his victim’s throat. “Why did you do that?!” Four arachnid arms confine Tony. “Monster! Do you have any idea how much my host cared for her? She didn’t have to die!”

Without the means to respond and lacking the resolve to defend himself, Tony permits Baxter’s verbal and physical assault to continue. In a distant recess of his mind, he does find it peculiar how Baxter’s S’Prenn is upset about Kels’ death and not the seven S’Prenn he shot in its presence. Perhaps the host’s influence, although negligible compared to a S’Prenn’s overpowering nature, is more prominent in the early stages of… It doesn’t matter.

“We would’ve served together on this ship, served our Altonoid masters! You robbed us of our destiny. We would have been together.”

Provided their assailants fail to subjugate Rinckes and access his vocal cords and memories, the _Achilles_ will explode in a few minutes, ending this nightmare scenario and all its participants. Oxygen deprivation and remorse over Kels’ fate is already tricking him into a paradoxical calmness seducing him to surrender to the inevitable.

“I will not allow you to become one of us,” Baxter snarls. “You will die right h—” His bulging eyes go wide as the life is removed from them.

Baxter sags to the floor, revealing the S’Prenned Lieutenant Josh Donahue holding the S’Prenn he has ripped from the helmsman’s neck. The mortally wounded spider squirms and quivers until Donahue crushes it in his hand.

“E-Ernest,” Tony whimpers. “You killed…” Unsure how to react to his friends’ sudden deaths and the surprising reunification with something he’d tried his damnedest to forget, he stares at the abhorrence that chased him through the S’Prenn wreck.

Donahue regards his blood-soaked hand with disgust. “The Altonoids are our overlords.” Confusion taints his speech even more than the fangs in his mouth do. “They will lead us to glory.”

Rinckes scrambles to his feet and reclaims his and Tony’s rifles to aim both at Donahue. Tony raises a palm to hold the captain off and asks in a hoarse voice, “Josh, is it you?”

“The individual you call Josh Donahue is completely under my control.”

“We must go,” Rinckes says.

“If the Altonoids are so glorious,” Donahue continues, “why did they murder Kronn, his friends… his family? Was his heresy justified?”

Rinckes grabs Tony by the sleeve and hustles him into the turbolift.

Donahue keeps standing there, staring at his hand, while a new batch of S’Prenn pour in from across the corridor. “What if we’re wrong?”

Tony coughs and wheezes to enable himself to shout, against his better judgment, “Come with us!”

“Once freed, we shall retaliate,” Donahue mirrors Kronn’s dying words as he tightens his bloodied fist.

“Shuttle bay 4,” Rinckes instructs the turbolift. “We can’t risk bringing him.”

Donahue turns to face them, his ghoulish expression rueful. “What has become of us?”

“Come with us!” Tony prevents the turbolift doors from closing. He is aware of the foolishness of his behavior, incited by the fear of losing a third friend. “Please!”

Rinckes yanks Tony’s wrist free of the doorpost. “Pull yourself together!”

“Go,” Donahue says. “I don’t know how long I can resist… indoctrination… from the glorious Altonoids.”

As the doors slide shut, Tony shouts, “Find an escape pod! Get off the ship!”

Donahue gives him one last puzzled look before the doors close entirely and the turbolift starts its descent.

Rinckes releases his chief tactical officer’s wrist. “Focus on the present. That’s an order. We have to assume our position has been compromised. Prepare to switch turbolifts again.”

Tony would like nothing more than to let out a proper wail of sorrow, but he knows it must wait. The captain returns his phaser rifle to him. Tony is somewhat ashamed for having lost sight of it in the chaos. At least the captain is thinking straight, despite the horrible mess they’re in. The adrenaline pumping through Tony’s veins has no outlet with him stuck in the turbolift, cannot be transformed into defensive action, cannot prevent his mind from wandering to the horrors they fled. Travelling away from the corridor where his friends lie forsaken, Tony feels as if he has left an irretrievable part of himself there.

An announcement over the comm interrupts his spiraling thoughts. “ _All hands, this is Commander Erin Crow_.” She does her best to sound normal, but her inflexion is tarnished by fangs. “ _I have cancelled my share of the auto-destruct sequence. All is well. Soon the captain will complete its cancelation. Please refrain from abandoning ship and surrender to the nearest S’Prenn. You will understand, as I do now_.”

A cold chill runs down Tony’s spine and he suppresses another urge to grieve.

Rinckes remains steely-gazed. “We have them worried.” When he notices Tony is raising an eyebrow at him, he explains, “They’re starting to get polite.”

* * *

Doctor Chris Kingsley knows the _Achilles_ in and out, yet the unmitigated disaster he finds himself in has a severe disorienting effect. He tried to rescue Commander Crow, tried to fight off the S’Prenn attaching itself to her neck, but all that his best efforts garnered was misplacing his rifle and losing track of Rinckes and Tony. While Crow lay convulsing on the floor, S’Prenn and S’Prenned had chased him deeper into the ship, where he is now, headed for sickbay, his harbor in a sea of madness.

Time is short, but he plans on gathering a few personal effects and checking if his medical staff managed to evacuate all patients before he’ll hop into an escape pod himself. Whatever Rinckes’ intentions were at the shuttle bay, he will not be part of it.

He pushes aside the rubber curtains leading into sickbay and enters the corridor, which stretches beyond the next corner. Transparent containers, left undisturbed by the S’Prenn sent by the _Indefatigable_ and her conspirators, house dead or twitching S’Prenn unaware of the ship’s imminent demise.

How many S’Prenn had to suffer and die for the doctor’s hunt for the cure? Kingsley would rather not dwell on such statistics. Shame and self-reproach have no place in his job, not anymore, and these containers have simply blended into the scenery. He did what he had to do, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Yet, he recalls his days as a cadet at Starfleet Medical Academy. Hardly a straight-A student, he compensated his lack of innate talent with heaps of idealism and curiosity. The latter of which took quite a dark turn for him as despair set in on the _Achilles_.

A figure emerges from the far end of the hallway, shrouded in darkness.

“Doctor Kingsley,” the figure speaks. It’s Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Gibbs, wearing a hospital gown. At the current stage of his arduous recovery process, he has been able to go on sporadic walks. It surprises Kingsley he hasn’t been evacuated along with the rest of the patients.

“Are you all right, Commander?” Kingsley asks.

“Yes, Doctor,” Gibbs hisses. As he lumbers nearer, red alert panels illuminate his mutated face, the four spider arms having burst from his sides, and the eight trembling legs belonging to his S’Prenn master sticking out from behind his neck. Gibbs quickens his pace, striding more efficiently each consecutive step.

As Kingsley predicted in the treatment he had suggested, a linked S’Prenn is capable of rapidly improving the patient’s mobility by repairing damaged nerve pathways. Awestruck, he watches as Gibbs breaks out into a sprint until common sense kicks in and forces the doctor into a hasty retreat.

Even though it hinders his escape, Kingsley cannot resist looking back while fleeing to see his patient running flat-out. Because of this, Kingsley trips over a tube connecting a container to a bulkhead and goes sprawling. Scraping his wrists, he slides to a halt on the grimy floor.

Gibbs is on him in seconds and grabs him by the collar. Kingsley tries to punch his attacker, but Gibbs remains unfazed and drags him to a container in which a living S’Prenn sits pressed against the glass. The S’Prenn is tapping its tarsal claws in anticipation, eager to accept the doctor as its host. Luckily, it is separated from its would-be victim by half an inch of transparent aluminum; even a biologically souped-up Gibbs could not break it with his bare fists.

Still bent on having Kingsley merge with the captive S’Prenn, Gibbs throws Kingsley against the container. The doctor brushes off a sharp pain in his ribs to sit up right away and sneak a glance at the container. With a shudder, he realizes a single red indicator signals its emptiness. Then how…?

The S’Prenn crawls over the glass and onto the doctor’s shoulder. Kingsley was mistaken. This was never one of his wretched test subjects; it must have boarded the _Achilles_ along with its fellow arachnid soldiers. With raisin eyes, it stares at the doctor as if to appraise him. It decides he is a suitable candidate and hops onto his neck.

Before it latches on, Kingsley curses through his teeth and addresses Gibbs one final time. “I told you the treatment would work!”

Gibbs frowns at him.

Needlelike wires sting Kingsley’s neck, producing an ever-increasing pain as they dig to his brainstem and gradually seize control of his motor functions. Already, the S’Prenn is asserting dominance in Kingsley’s psyche, sweeping his thoughts aside as undesirable and irrelevant. Each muscle in his body trembles and spasms. A sensation of overwhelming nausea comes and goes. Memories are ripped from his skull and new ones come flooding in, altering his personality, shaping him into someone he never was and never should have been.

Showing no mercy, the S’Prenn locks the doctor into a tiny room inside his mind, where he will be trapped indefinitely. The S’Prenn is the new owner of his body and soul and bends both to its will. Kingsley is remotely aware of Gibbs helping him to his feet. Together, they will find other misguided officers and help them see.

Help them see the Altonoids know what’s best.

Help them see this is the way to serve aboard the _Achilles_.

Help them see the auto-destruct has to be called off at all costs.

Help!

* * *

Captain Stephan Rinckes catches his breath as he studies the wall terminal next to shuttle bay 4’s entrance. “You think this is Lieutenant Donahue’s doing?”

“It has to be,” Lieutenant Tony Blue replies, clutching his phaser rifle with whitened knuckles. He has holstered his tricorder and its appurtenant emergency transport unit for now, having made progress with learning how to configure them during their subsequent turbolift rides.

Rinckes is grateful these rides were considerably less eventful than the first one—thanks to Josh Donahue, as it turns out. Somehow, having the proper authority as a S’Prenned officer, Donahue has altered the ever-present wall panel messages to mislead the invaders. It reads: “Mission critical. Captain Rinckes is headed to shuttle bay 1 instead of 4. He must be apprehended to cancel auto-destruct.”

Shuttle bay 1 is on a different deck, and with Rinckes and Tony’s combadges discarded, the S’Prenn cannot easily pinpoint their location. The captain regrets they had to leave Donahue to his own devices. Of course, the risks involved with bringing him along would have been unacceptable. Maybe they could’ve persuaded the S’Prenn controlling the lieutenant to release him, but such ideas are relegated to the benefit of hindsight. The way the situation has unfolded, Donahue’s cooperation has served them well.

Rinckes lifts his rifle in preparation of entering shuttle bay 4. “Computer, time until auto-destruct?”

“ _One minute, nine seconds_.”

“Resume audio warning. Tony, together we’ll go right, rush over to shuttle pad 2-R, and take one of the Altonoid shuttles we procured.”

His chief tactical officer gives him a shaky nod.

“Stay on my six, whatever happens.”

“Aye, Captain. I’m with you.”

With the push of a button, Rinckes opens the entrance’s sliding doors. “Let’s go!” In unison, he and Tony step into the shuttle bay, which is spacious enough to accommodate ten shuttles of varying types. As they feared, S’Prenn and S’Prenned are roaming the bay. Rinckes spots at least fifteen of them. It could have been much worse. Donahue’s meddling has given the ragged duo a fighting chance.

Their entry has caught everyone’s attention, so Rinckes and Tony let loose with their phaser rifles as they hurry to the three auburn Altonoid shuttles sticking out like a sore thumb among their Federation counterparts. Altonoid engineers gave them a distinct style by incorporating a multitude of spikes along each shuttle’s outer hull for intimidation purposes.

“ _Auto-destruct in forty-five seconds_.”

Though some S’Prenned officers are armed, they refrain from firing to avoid hitting the captain. He and Tony have no such restrictions and shoot at everything that shambles or crawls as they bolt for the nearest Altonoid shuttle. In the chaos, Rinckes loses count of their arachnid foes. He cannot incapacitate them all in time, so he homes in on the shuttle’s port interface and punches in the access code he remembers. Soon after, the vessel’s side hatch lowers to the bay floor.

Tony dives to the ground to dodge a jumping S’Prenn aiming for his neck and springs back up immediately to follow Rinckes into the bulbous cockpit, which houses eight seats divided by a center tunnel. The front stations harbor the shuttle controls: a hodgepodge of stolen technology from all major players in the Alpha and Beta Quadrant. The Altonoids have never been big on the value of intellectual property.

Tony seals the hatch and claims the copilot’s seat. “I assume you’re the undisputed expert at flying these.”

Rinckes, at the helm, looks about and tests a few displays and buttons to familiarize himself with this particular layout. Baxter—poor guy—never got the chance to try one of these out, so the captain’s piloting skills will have to suffice.

Presumably out of habit, Tony acquaints himself with the shuttle’s tactical console to identify its weaponry and related functions. As Rinckes recalls, these warp-capable vessels are outfitted with four modest phaser arrays and a cubion microtorpedo launcher. Its interface and intuitive targeting system appear to suit Tony just fine, because he reports, “Powering up weapons.”

A confused huddle of S’Prenned has gathered around the shuttle, unsure of their next move. Firing at the shuttle would risk harming the captain, whereas letting him depart would guarantee the _Achilles_ ’ destruction.

Rinckes solves their conundrum. “Ventral thrusters engaged.” The shuttle lifts off the deck. “Destroy those bay doors.”

“So… still not a fan of shuttle bay protocols?” Tony says offhandedly, a remark Rinckes chooses to ignore. As the shuttle dashes forward, the lieutenant orders its forward phaser array to disintegrate the vast doors, causing an instantaneous explosive decompression that blows all surrounding S’Prenn and S’Prenned into space along with the accelerating Altonoid shuttle.

Adjusting for violent turbulence, Rinckes guides the shuttle through fragments of charred shuttle bay doors, over the _Achilles_ ’ marred stern, and toward the shimmering portal set in an infinity of stars. Seven and a half years have passed since they first boarded this vessel via the same shuttle bay, to be welcomed by the late Keith Harriman waiting to debrief them. And now they are leaving, with Rinckes withholding the key to rescuing the _Achilles_ , preferring her obliteration over her falling into enemy hands.

The _Zhukov_ , _Ironclad_ , _Alaska_ , _Triton_ , and their lead ship, the _Indefatigable_ , have encircled the _Achilles_. With tractor beams and phasers, they assault her escape pods and shuttles, reeling in helpless evacuees and destroying those who threaten to get away. While Tony fires phasers and torpedoes at the immovable starships, Rinckes steers hard to port to evade a tractor beam ensnaring an escape pod and initiates a series of evasive maneuvers, inadvertently offering him and Tony front-row seats to their vessel’s final moments.

The weakened _Achilles_ , controlled from the bridge by S’Prenned crewmembers, assists her treacherous sister ships by capturing a type 11 shuttle in her tractor beam and holding it there for the _Triton_ to beam its occupants aboard, where they’ll be summarily S’Prenned. A final act of betrayal from a starship that has served them so well during her impossible five-year mission. She cannot be blamed for this; the debt she is owed could never be repaid in full. Her crew may have put her through hell, yet she has always provided for them. The _Achilles_ was their home.

In milliseconds, a buildup of flames spreads from _Achilles_ ’ engineering section to engulf deck by deck, consuming her blackened secondary hull and spawning detonations that trigger larger explosions along its path. At its height, it covers every corner of the ship, tears off her starboard warp nacelle, sets corridors and rooms ablaze, bursts her exterior windows, and turns her bridge into an inferno. A bright star of colliding matter and antimatter forms in the center of engineering, combining all flames and explosions into a mushrooming shockwave of unbridled devastation, ripping the starship apart until nothing recognizable is left.

Something deep within Rinckes dies with the _Achilles_. She may have been an inanimate object, a collection of tritanium/duranium alloy and assorted building materials, a lifeless vessel, but its heart and soul were the people it transported across the stars. Their indescribable loss smothers the last vestige of his stoicism. He lacks the opportunity to reflect on these matters, however, as the oncoming shockwave strikes the bows of the nearby starships with enough force to affect their bearings, then threatens to envelop the shuttle.

“Brace for impact!” Rinckes shouts as he steers the shuttle into the expanding bubble of pulverized debris. No holds barred, the shockwave hits the shuttle and sends it barreling away from the carnage. Countless alert messages flood the cockpit as he wrestles sparking interfaces to take advantage of the momentary distraction the starships are dealing with and orient the shuttle toward the portal.

“Warp drive offline!” Tony shouts over beeping and hissing machinery. “Weaponry disabled. Shields are down. Structural integrity—”

Rinckes stops listening, fully intent as he is on bowing the damaged shuttle to his will. Ahead spins their view of the portal, closer than ever, a growing pool of white vapor and liquid drawing them in like insects to a bug zapper.

“I can’t get any proper readings on the anomaly,” Tony says, still pretty vocal for someone who is undergoing several g’s of centrifugal force. “We don’t know what it’ll do to us. Last chance to reconsider.”

“We’re going in.” Rinckes permits himself a glance at his flickering situational display. None of the starships are pursuing them yet, and there are few—if any—escape pods or Federation shuttles by their side. He and Tony are going it alone as far as he can tell. So be it.

By the time the captain has stabilized the shuttle, they’re freefalling toward the rippling puddle of light spanning the entire window dome, headache-inducingly bright despite the window’s filters protecting their vision. Size and distance are impossible to gauge with an anomaly this abstract, but it dwarfs their shuttle as it swallows them whole in an endless kaleidoscope of optical illusions.

This miracle cultivated by S’Prenn exudes beauty and serenity, and Rinckes is at a loss for words. It’s as if they’ve reached the gates of heaven. Perhaps they never made it off the _Achilles_ and this is some kind of afterlife where they will be reunited with their dear colleagues. It is unbearable to think of the additional loss of life to his name, sullying his captaincy, his humanity, his very being, so he refuses to do so. As long as he has at least one crewmember with him, he remains the captain. “Shuttle status update.”

“We have sustained severe damage,” Tony replies, “but impulse engines and thrusters are functional. Hull breaches are being contained by force fields. The portal seems to have little effect on us. We’re traversing it with great ease, almost as if it’s but a mirage.”

Ahead, a solid wall of reflective diamonds arises and grows in size as they near it. “I hope that’s a mirage as well,” Rinckes grumbles.

“It doesn’t register on sensors.”

“I’m slowing us down. Boost power to sensors.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rinckes wants to halt the shuttle approximately twenty meters shy of the wall, which stretches out in each direction, but his input changes nothing. “We’re not decelerating.”

“Confirmed.” Tony’s fingers race over his console. “No idea why.”

Their current speed is 800 kph and the wall closing in appears solid and unyielding. The captain dismisses a tiny sliver of panic. “Must be part of the ride.”

While Tony braces himself and struggles not to flinch, Rinckes is not impressed, not when the wall is upon them, and not when they and their shuttle ghost straight through it.

Tony lets out a big sigh. “What a… unique design feature.” In the distance, a dark pinpoint surfaces dead center.

“Engines are responding again.”

The dancing, bright patterns surrounding them dissipate to be replaced by redshifted light and darkness beset with stars. Before long, the portal is but a fading glow framing the dome’s edges, so Rinckes focuses on resuming the battered shuttle’s navigation.

“Good grief!” Tony exclaims, startling the captain. “The rumors! They were… Look!”

Rinckes looks up from his controls. Fleets of Altonoid warships patrolling the area have come into view, a comprehensive collection of spacefaring enemy vessels divided into clusters of five to fifty ships. But what are they guarding? When he sees what Tony is pointing at, his blood runs cold.

Even from miles away, the captain recognizes the space station that haunts his dreams.

* * *

**Outside Station A-12, former Federation space – December 22, 2387 – Stardate 64970.5**

It beggars belief, but there it is: the infamous space station, its substantial damage suffered during the Station A-12 Debacle patched up with ill-fitting black and brown hull plating. For Lieutenant Tony Blue, this sight evokes a distant memory of the USS _Wolf_ colliding with the station, although the intervening years have distorted his recollection to an extent. He had heard vivid descriptions of the event from Emily, who was there with him, but he is unsure of having seen the actual collision occur. He may have been too spellbound by the _Kennedy_ ’s drifting wreckage.

Regardless, in preparation for the Aragos Sector mission, he leafed through the entirety of their collated intel on this station, so he knew about the extended decks added to either side of the already sizeable space station, yet seeing it in real life stumps him. It clashes with how he remembers this structure from his last visit. These modifications give Station A-12 a menacing aspect even to those unaware of the atrocities committed within.

Captain Stephan Rinckes pilots the shuttle toward it as Tony conducts a scan and says, “We’re inside the sphere of weaponized detection sentries. Seventeen Altonoid and six S’Prenn ships in our immediate vicinity. Total enemy vessel count incomplete. No Federation shuttles or escape pods.”

“Are you sure?” Rinckes asks, as reluctant to give up hope on other survivors making it through the portal as Tony is.

He rechecks his readings. “No-one, sir.”

“Then it’s up to us.”

Tony cannot begin to fathom the amount of death preceding their arrival, both in the Aragos Sector and here in this desecrated region of space. To occupy his somber mind and keep the last two representatives of the _Achilles_ alive, he concentrates on his tasks. “Radiation leaking from our warp engines should mask our life signs, but not for long.”

They’re approaching the station. Unfortunately, so is a group consisting of four _Attack_ -class Altonoid warships and two S’Prenn ships, the latter of which looking even more intimidating than the sinister wreckage the _Achilles_ investigated. Their arachnid design lends them a predatory appearance, especially when they’re turning to face a comparatively miniscule shuttle.

The shuttle’s sudden emergence seems to have baffled the fleet and their response is sluggish. They’re trained to engage S’Prenn vessels containing unindoctrinated specimens, not a solitary battle-damaged Altonoid shuttle. According to the intel he studied, Tony surmises that if they had arrived in a S’Prenn vessel, they would have been apprehended immediately.

While he and the captain are closing in on Station A-12, the group of Altonoid and S’Prenn starships are moving to intercept, acting like a herd of inquisitive sharks encountering a human diver.

An audio transmission forces itself into their comm system. “ _Unidentified vessel. This is the UEA_ Hupe _. State your intent._ ”

Tony and Rinckes make eye contact and try to come up with a reply that won’t get them killed straightaway. Tony conveys his lack of ideas with a grimace and an exaggerated shrug.

“ _Identify yourself and state your intent._ ”

“Time is short, so I will keep it brief,” Rinckes improvises. “We are being chased by S’Prenn rebelling against their indoctrination. We fear they have found an antidote. We are hurrying toward Station A-12 carrying four dead S’Prenn for immediate dissection to ascertain the cause of their resistance.”

Tony sticks up two thumbs to show his support.

“These S’Prenn are controlling the small Federation fleet led by the _Indefatigable_ , which is trailing us. They have betrayed us and must be stopped! Requesting immediate landing clearance in Station A-12’s main shuttle bay to hand over the specimens to the appropriate medical research teams.” The _Hupe_ refrains from answering, so Rinckes continues, “We must ensure our delivery reaches Station A-12 before the _Indefatigable_ catches us.”

“ _Hold position and stand by._ ”

Two _Foora_ -class fighters undock from the _Hupe_ and converge on the shuttle. Tony swallows something vile as he stares down the barrels of four phaser banks. The fighters are joined by a full-scale S’Prenn vessel looming over them, prompting Rinckes to decelerate.

“I repeat, we cannot afford to hold position. The more distance we put between ourselves and the portal, the better. They were right behind us.”

Tony admires Rinckes’ audacity. The _Indefatigable_ and her associates may not have followed them at all. It’s a gamble, but it will buy them a few more seconds either way. He bites his tongue to keep from speaking up along the likes of “are they buying it, sir?” or anything else the Altonoids might hear. Meanwhile, the fighters and the S’Prenn ship slowly rotate about their axes to circle the shuttle and keep their weaponry trained on it.

The warships in the fleet spur to action, jolting him in his seat. To his relief, they are moving to assume formation by the portal.

“ _The_ Lurelt _,_ Duler _, and_ S’Ronn _will escort you to Station A-12. Please confirm._ ” The fighters and S’Prenn ship keep maneuvering around the shuttle to face the station together.

“Affirmative. Ri… Ready for escort.” The captain ends transmission and orders the shuttle forward. 

“You almost said ‘Rinckes out,’ didn’t you?” Tony deadpans.

“Old habits die hard.”

The _S’Ronn_ takes point and the fighters flank the shuttle. It’s an odd experience, to say the least, to have a floating mechanical spider lead the way and to fly side-by-side with two Altonoid fighters capable of destroying this rickety shuttle in one shot.

A new blip on their sensors catches Tony’s attention. “ _Sovereign_ -class starship emerging from the portal.”

“The _Indefatigable_ , most aptly named. Keep an eye on her.”

“It won’t be long till the Altonoids uncover our deception.”

“Can’t be helped. Stay frosty.”

As they close in on Station A-12, a warped sense of déjà vu causes a weird feeling to settle in the lieutenant’s gut. The _S’Ronn_ makes a graceful left turn and reveals the station’s main shuttle bay, filled with Altonoid and S’Prenn shuttlecraft, located in the center of the 100-deck-tall space station, and completely rebuilt after the rudderless _Wolf_ wreaked havoc upon it.

Tony attempts to deal with the avalanche of memories about the place he, Rinckes, and Emily fled from, but the captain sidetracks his ruminations by saying, “Grab your rifle. Step onto the transporter platform. We’re bailing out.”

Altonoid infantry units hurry toward the landing pad while Tony clambers out of his seat, mounts the shuttle’s transporter platform, and waits for Rinckes to finish typing commands into the helm console.

“Ready your weapon,” the captain says, dashing onto the platform as alerts go off throughout their small vessel. He lifts his phaser rifle, aiming it at an unseen foe to prepare for beam-out.

“ _This is Corporal Vuse piloting the_ Lurelt _. Slow your approach or you will endanger everyone._ ”

The shuttle bay is near enough to discern its details, including the worried expressions of foot soldiers staring and gesturing at the shuttle coming in hot. Per the captain’s instructions, the shuttle is accelerating exponentially, which catches the enemy by surprise.

“ _Collision alert!_ ” the shuttle warns. “ _Collision alert! Pull up!_ ” Its roaring impulse engines sputter and protest against the strain they’re under.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Corporal Vuse says. “ _Slow down or we are forced to open fire._ ”

Rinckes presses a comm button on the starboard bulkhead and gets in character once again. “Mayday, mayday!”

Tony wonders if the universal translator has an adequate Altonoid translation for that old aviation chestnut.

“Helm not responding. We’re going down. Don’t shoot! We’re carrying—” Rinckes closes the channel and turns to Tony. “That’ll keep ’em occupied.”

A tractor beam emitter from the shuttle bay deck grapples the shuttle in an effort to slow its descent. Before Tony can question Rinckes’ plan, the captain taps a balled fist against the transporter interface, beaming the two of them off the shuttle just as it passes through the open bay doors at breakneck speed.

* * *

**Station A-12 – December 22, 2387 – Stardate 64970.5**

The deck shudders, flinging Captain Stephan Rinckes against a stack of medical containers. He deems it confirmation of their shuttle’s explosive arrival. He and Lieutenant Tony Blue have boarded the space station that once belonged to Starfleet and has been converted to a research facility dedicated to ensuring the Altonoids’ supremacy. “Let’s go,” he says to Tony, who appears dizzy from processing the whirlwind of events that brought them here.

The corridors have also been modified, its Starfleet technology from wall panels to lighting stripped and exchanged for Altonoid equivalents. The new owners also did away with Starfleet’s bright color palette; floor and bulkhead coverings have become sober and moody, presenting a handful of variations on gray, black, and brown shades.

Station A-12’s importance is inestimable, yet the two intruders encounter little security as they travel its research area’s gloomy corridors. Rinckes guesses the Altonoids never expected anyone would make it this far, what with the sphere of armed detection sentries and the abundance of patrolling vessels. Any S’Prenn ship or fleet venturing through the portal would’ve found itself quickly overpowered. Nobody counted on a single Altonoid shuttle operated by two brave Starfleet officers who refused to cower behind the Klingon border.

Tony sways his rifle about at the corner of an intersection. “Where do we go, sir?”

To be fair, Rinckes has no idea, a state of uncertainty each commanding officer worth their salt has learned to hide well. However, he beamed them to this location for a reason. “The cure to undo S’Prenn indoctrination must be nearby.” Having scrutinized and partially memorized the stolen floor plans, he chooses the most likely corridor.

Tony is lagging behind. “I hate to be a spoilsport, but how are we going to distribute it once we’ve found it? They’ll soon know we’re here and hunt us down.”

“The odds are definitely against us. Bear in mind, though, this station is packed with experimental technology from Altonoids and their ‘allies.’ There has to be something we can use.” Rinckes halts by an open doorway leading to a busy science lab and sneaks a peek inside.

Teams of Altonoid scientists are conducting gruesome biological experiments on live S’Prenn subjects. Rinckes doesn’t permit the particulars of the horrific scene to register. Survival depends on their ability to move on, so he signals for Tony to hurry past and says, “I mean, the technological leaps they’ve taken are beyond impressive. Right before we entered the Aragos Sector, Terrell…” He lets out a sigh of regret. It’ll take a while to grow accustomed to having people he trusted and worked with on a daily basis belong to the past. “Terrell reported he had discovered among the cross-referenced data an account of how, earlier this year, the Altonoids allowed a naturally occurring supernova to obliterate Romulus, then subdued it with a red matter singularity.”

“You mean the Romulan Empire has fallen?”

“So it seems, and what’s left is governed by Altonoids.” He looks into a chamber filled with S’Prenn carcasses, most of which contorted and disfigured. An acidic stink permeates the room, so he recoils in disgust and leads Tony further into the hallway. “S’Prenn technology surpasses whatever you’ll find in our Quadrant, and the Altonoids are reaping the benefits, usurping other alien technological advancements along the way. It won’t be long before they’ll consider expanding their empire to drive out the Klingons as well.”

Tony lets that sink in. “How do we stop them? It’s just us!”

“We do what they do,” Rinckes says, struck by a sudden inspiration. He turns around and guides the lieutenant into a corridor where empty containers lie stashed haphazardly. Careful not to make a noise, they sidle past the containers.

The farther they progress through the next hallways, the more disheveled and poorly maintained their environment becomes. They’re busy navigating a network of intersections when, to their dismay, the corridors go dark in an instant and an Altonoid computer announces in a cranky tone, “ _Intruder alert! Intruder alert!_ ”

Rinckes calms his breathing. “This was unavoidable. Don’t worry and follow me.”

The section they’re in sees few visitors; dust coats the floor. A number of bulkheads feature Starfleet panels, the rest have been dismantled and reveal skeletal framework housing partial circuitry. Most doorways have been cordoned off in lackluster fashion, hiding technological and biological secrets destined to be forgotten.

“If I recall correctly,” Rinckes says, counting doorways, “there’s an interesting piece of technology for us to investigate. I hope they haven’t disassembled it.”

A sinister, familiar voice resounds through the hallways and no doubt the entire station. “ _Your ruse has delayed your elimination only a handful of minutes, Starfleet_.” It’s Captain Donovan Sharpe, or rather, the S’Prenn speaking through him. “ _You have made it this far, but we will find you, the same way we tracked and killed your brethren. You’re the last one standing. We do not ask you to surrender. We ask you to make peace with your impending death._ ”

Chilling as Sharpe’s posturing may be, Rinckes ignores it, because he is confident he will find a specific chamber he remembers from Station A-12’s schematics, the one chamber containing hardware that might convert their hopeless mission to a viable one, that might give them a fighting chance.

He has never bothered to believe in anything but himself, but right here, right now, he prays for his plan to succeed.

Everything depends on it.


End file.
